


Inhale,Exhale

by marksmanfem



Category: Boondock Saints (Movies), Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Escape, F/M, Girl Saves Boy, Grief/Mourning, Romance, Secrets, Sneaking Around, post-All Saint's Day, pre-rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marksmanfem/pseuds/marksmanfem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"She's a little different, a little confused, and just a little bit fractured. And that's that way she prefers it. The man Maggie literally stumbles over as she roams deeper into her woods is also splintered, though in a much deeper and more fundamental way." Set pre-rising, post All Saints Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Siarh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siarh/gifts).



> This story is the prize awarded to and the result of a prompt from Siarh (totally check out her work, if you like Walking Dead stuff) for winning one of the most random contests I’ve ever thought of (long story, ask me over a drink sometime).
> 
> Set during the Christmas season before the outbreak; much like the show, I won’t pin an exact year on it. Set post All Saints Day. If either character seems a little AU, please remember this is Maggie as she was before the outbreak: college student in last or second-to-last year of school, not too long after her rebellious teenage years. This is Connor after the death of his father, Greenly, Rocco, and his experience at the Hoag, as well as some other things we’ll get into later. Thanks, as ever, for reading.

_“It hurts, Murph. Ye said it’d be better by now, but it hurts...An’ I’m pretty tired, so…I’m gonna…sit down fer a bit. Might…be better after I sit down.”_

_…_

_“Maggie? Is that you?”_

_“Yeah, Annette, just headed out for a walk to stretch my legs after the drive. You need somethin’?”_

_“You mean you’re goin’ out to the woods to smoke while your dad’s still in town?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Glad you’re home, sweetheart. Just be back in time for supper.”_

_“Glad to be home, Annette.”_

…

Day 1:

 

The cigarette is the first one Maggie’s had all semester. She promised herself if she made it through the last final without cracking she could smoke herself into a disgusting, tar-saturated mess over Christmas, and, _God_ , is it a good feeling to keep that promise.

 

She’d gotten into the habit of sneaking out into the woods to smoke back when her Dad and Annette first started dating. Rebellious, surly teenager phase. The shoplifting and sullen fits faded out eventually, as most ridiculous juvenile habits should, but the smoking stuck around.

 

It’s become a ritual since she started college: meet and greet the family for a few hours on the first day of winter break, wait until her dad runs out to town for something, then strike out on her own to stretch her legs after that “long drive.”

 

She realizes she’s being chicken shit on several levels, not the least of which is denying herself smoking at school so that none of her upstanding, respectable, trendy school friends know that she has such a “publicly loathed and reprehensible habit.” Their words, not hers.

 

She snorts to herself as she lights up her first smoke in five months. As she wanders through the woods she knows better than anywhere else in the world, she silently admits that she likes being someone else when she’s alone, that she likes being different from everyone she knows.

 

At school, she’s the smart, pretty girl who’s just popular and sought after enough. At home, she’s the level-headed and practical daughter who grew out of her rebellious streak and into a “fine, responsible young woman her family can be proud of.” Pastor Bill’s words, not hers.

 

To her friends, Maggie is fun, friendly, and funny. To her family, she is reasonable, rational, and reliable. In her own opinion, Maggie is a little of all of these, but mostly none of the above. She’s a little different, a little confused, and just a little bit fractured.

 

And that’s the way she prefers it.

 

The man Maggie literally stumbles over as she roams deeper into her woods is also splintered, though in a much deeper and more fundamental way. She’s startled, rightly so (though less frightened than she probably should be), and nearly spits her cigarette out on the ground. The filthy, broken stranger reclines on the ground, barely upright against a massive oak, and she has apparently tripped over his outstretched legs.

 

Though Maggie wonders how she could have possibly missed him, he doesn’t seem to notice she’s there.

 

“You alright?” She regrets the words the moment they pass her lips, silently cursing her stupidity. He’s very obviously far from alright. Again, he doesn’t seem to hear her; he’s muttering incoherently, eyes closed, his limp form useless and deflated against the base of the tree.

 

She realizes several things in rapid succession: he’s clearly not a threat to her physically (she’s not sure he could move if he wanted to); he’s in serious need of medical or professional help (or both); and both of those are probably the last thing he wants right now, judging from the ragged gray jumpsuit he’s wearing that reads “Hoag Maximum Security Prison” across the chest.

 

It takes her all of thirty seconds to decide she needs to help him more than she needs to turn him in. She has very little rational basis for this decision, but aside from being a little fractured, she’s also stubborn as hell, and God help anyone in her way once she’s made up her mind.

 

She kneels next to him, careful to move slowly and deliberately in case he might become aware of her presence and spook suddenly like a wild animal.

 

“Can ya hear me? Are ya hurt?”

 

His eyes flick to hers, unexpectedly alert, and Maggie has to force herself not to start backwards. His gaze is a hazy, pain-filled blue that steals a little air from her lungs. She thinks simultaneously of the day a tornado ripped through their barn and took most of the building with it, and of the way her father looked when he held her hand at the foot of her mother’s casket.

 

He croaks something, a horrible, dried-out whisper that she can’t decipher, and tilts his head towards her. She cautiously leans closer and asks him to repeat what he said.

 

“Ye…gonna…finish dat?”

 

She glances down, for a moment not recognizing the cigarette still clamped between two fingers. Without thinking, she dashes off the accumulated ashes and holds the smoke up to his lips. She’s pretty sure he can’t hold it up himself, and she’d rather not set the fugitive or the woods on fire just now.

 

He draws in the first lungful slowly, visibly relishing the inhale as if it’s the most miraculous thing he’s ever experienced. Maggie reflects for a moment that she can relate to the feeling, and marvels that they have even this small thing in common. He raises a trembling hand, fingers brushing accidentally against hers as he very carefully and deliberately takes the cigarette, making a noticeable effort to keep the small object between fingers that seem to have lost most of their dexterity.

 

There’s no magical tingle or spark of electricity jumping between their hands when they touch, not like in those trashy romance books she constantly catches Beth reading. What his cool skin brushing against hers does, however, is remind her that it’s December, and even though they’re in Georgia, it’s a bit cool out today.

 

“I, uh…got a few things back at the house might help ya out, mister,” she says suddenly, straightening. “Gimme an hour or two, I’ll see what I can get together.”

 

She turns her back on the broken wreck at the base of the tree and starts toward home. A nagging thought in the corner of her mind makes her pauses, turn, and look at him. She watches him inhale and exhale for a couple of moments, his eyes either distant or just plain vacant again as the smoke curls around his face.

 

“Don’t…don’t leave, alright? I’ll be right back.”

 

They both know she doesn’t mean the kind of leaving that involves getting up and walking away.

 

She takes much longer than she meant to, and it’s several hours later when she’s finally able to leave the house without anyone noticing that her arms are full of things she’d have no explanation for taking outside.

 

She’s absurdly relieved to find “Prison Man” (as she’s taken to calling him in her head) in the same place that she left him. Then she freezes.

 

There’s a terrible second where she can’t tell if he’s still breathing.

 

There’s a worse second where she’s sure he isn’t.

 

There’s a light-headed second when he finally moves.

 

This is followed quickly by a rather confused second where she wonders why she cares so much.

 

He tilts his head a little to the side, and as his cloudy eyes roll to meet hers, she’s surprised to hear the flustered apologies and excuses spilling and stumbling from her lips as if they’ve found their own convicts in the woods to trip over. She fumbles her armload of supplies to the ground next to him and trails off, mumbling something about having to help with chores and having dinner with the family.

 

Her face is flaming in the chilly darkness, and she doesn’t know why.

 

He watches her dully, silent and shivering as she pulls containers and clothing from within the folds of the blanket in which she’s bundled her stash. Maggie bites her lip as she moves, forcing in the babbling and feeling very young in this haggard man’s presence.

 

She opens a container of homemade soup still warm from the stove and realizes that in her belated haste to get back to him she’s forgotten any sort of utensils.

 

“I don’t suppose you can hold the soup up to drink it, can you?” she asks, not sure why she’s speaking so quietly. There’s no chance anyone at the house can hear them out here.

 

“C’n try,” he mutters, reaching out once more with trembling hands.

 

It’s clear after a brief, awkward attempt that he just doesn’t have the strength. Maggie repositions herself on the leaves, sitting cross-legged and facing him. Instead of taking the soup from him, she wraps her warm hands around his frigid ones and guides the container back to his lips.

 

Between sips, he whispers, “ ‘F I ferget t’say so, thank ye.” She blinks hard for a moment, clearing her throat, and nods.

 

“Welcome,” she smiles, glad the darkness hides the flames that simmer on her face again.

 

The darkness does not quite hide the old tear tracks running through the layers of grime on his face, but she’s polite enough to not notice this aloud.

 

When he’s finished, she pulls out another Tupperware container that has several warm, wet rags inside. “I thought ya might want to clean up some. An’ I brought ya a change of clothes, somethin’ a bit warmer than…what you’ve got on. Didn’t know if you were hurt, so I brought a first aid kit if ya need it.”

 

Judging by the increased heat in her face and the slight, mischievous twinkle in his otherwise scattered eyes, the fact that he obviously can’t bathe and dress himself occurs to both of them at the same time.

 

“Oh, Lord,” Maggie mutters. There’s another tiny flash of humor in his eyes, but it fades just as quickly as the first. “I guess, if ya don’t mind too much, I’ll help ya do that part, too.”

 

“Pretty girl…offerin’ t’undress…me an’gimme….a sponge bath. Can’t really complain, can I?”

 

If there were any actual lasciviousness or threat in his tone, Maggie would be gone in an instant. His comment seems automatic, though, a habit pulled from the faintest echo of a past life that doesn’t exist anymore. Comments like this are expected of him, and it comes out reflexively rather than offensively.

 

She can’t say she ever expected to spend the first night of her winter break in the woods, helping an escaped prisoner strip and bathe. She’d be lying if she said this wasn’t the strangest thing that’s ever happened to her. Up to this point, life’s been fairly typical, if not storybook, but Maggie feels she’s handling the unorthodox situation rather well.

 

Diplomatically, if you ask her.

 

After thirty cold, exhausting (and slightly embarrassing) minutes, she’s gotten him mostly cleaned up and changed into some dollar store sweats and socks she lifted from Shawn’s room. She couldn’t swipe any shoes, and anyway, there’s no way she could guess his size. The shoes he had on aren’t in the absolute worst shape, so she slides them back on his feet. She barely manages to keep the heat contained in her face when she stammers out that she didn’t get any underwear, and he graciously murmurs that she’s done enough and he’ll surely be fine in what he’s got on.

 

He rouses himself enough during the tedious process to help as much as he can, especially to ask her to please be careful of the pair of rosaries he wears tucked into his undershirt. She takes a moment to delicately wipe a rag over the beads, and he takes a moment to thank her again, though she can see he’s quickly running through what little strength he had to start with.

 

She doesn’t ask him what a Prison Man could possibly be doing with one rosary, much less two. That’s not really her business.

 

She pulls out the last clean, damp rag and warms it between her hands before reaching out to his face. His attention has wandered, or he’s dozed off for a moment, and he flinches from the sudden contact. Years of helping her daddy deal with skittish animals at his office and on the farm have taught Maggie patience, though, and she holds her hand steady and murmurs soft, consoling words.

 

His eyes, panicked and a little wild, finally focus on her mouth as she continues talking, inane babble whose only purpose is to provide a soothing cadence to reassure him of his safety. After a moment, she presses the rag to his cheek again, gently wiping away grime and small bits of dried blood, effectively erasing any evidence of his apparent weeping.

 

When he speaks, his voice is so faint Maggie has to lean in to hear him, pausing in her ministrations.

 

“What’d you say, Prison Man?”

 

“Do ye know…any church songs? Voice like yers…seems made fer church singin’…And I ain’t…seen th’inside of a church…nor heard singin’ fer…ages. If it’s not askin’ too much…maybe a...hymn?”

 

Definitely not how she pictured tonight going.

 

Quietly, with more than a bit of rust in her pipes, Maggie manages to get out the first two verses of “The Old Rugged Cross” as she carefully washes his face clean. She hasn’t sung for anyone but church and family in a month of Sundays, but if she sounds particularly out of practice, Prison Man is polite enough to not say anything.

 

The parts of his face that aren’t covered in what looks like nearly a month’s growth of facial hair slowly give ground to her efforts. She finds several scratches under the filth, though nothing too deep or severe, and a couple of bruises. He’s so exhausted the circles under his eyes almost seem like the result of a physical altercation except there’s no signs of swelling or damage.

 

As she cleans a vaguely nasty looking scratch running through the bristles along the right side of his jaw line, she nearly apologies for not thinking to bring shaving supplies. The absurdity of the whole situation stops her from sharing this thought, though, and she bites her lip to prevent further slips.

 

She’s fairly sure he’s asleep now, and though she’s not one hundred percent, she thinks his breathing might be a little deeper and a little more regular than when she first found him. She covers him with the blanket she brought then quietly sets about gathering the rags, Tupperware, and tattered jumpsuit to take back with her.

 

His fingers on her bare elbow are so unexpected she tips over sideways from her precarious crouch and spits out a string of expletives that would have Annette threatening to pull out a bar of Dove, no matter that Maggie’s a junior in college.

 

“Didn’t mean…t’startle ye.”

 

“S’alright,” she huffs out. “What…what do ya need?” She has no idea in how he managed to catch her so off guard in his less than prime condition. She’s really got to pay better attention.

 

“Hate t’ask after…all ye done, but I was…wondrin’ if ye had…somethin’ t’drink an’ maybe…another smoke?”

 

“As a matter of fact,” she says, a relieved smile spreading over her face, “I think I can help you out on both counts.”

 

Five minutes later sees the two of them sitting side by side, the trunk of the massive oak wide enough for the two of them to sit shoulder to shoulder and hardly be facing in different directions. They smoke contentedly, one empty and one full bottle of water between them, and Maggie wonders for a moment how it is she can feel so relaxed next to this escaped convict that she doesn’t know from Adam.

 

“Feelin’ a little more yourself?” Maggie asks. He nods, the glow at the end of his cigarette dipping drunkenly in the darkness.

 

“Feel like sharin’ any personal information yet?”

 

A long, loaded pause, then—

 

“Name’s Connor.”

 

She nods; she doesn’t figure many escaped convicts are likely to be the sharing type. “I s’pose that’s better than Prison Man. I’m Maggie.”

 

Another pause.

 

Inhale…

 

Exhale…

 

“ ‘Twas a lovely song, Maggie. Can’t tell ye how much I appreciate what ye’ve done.”

 

The shyness hits her like a like an entire flock of butterflies landing in her stomach at once, and she’s suddenly jittery and restless without any real understanding as to why. She’s unable to sit still any longer and hastily stubs her cigarette out on the sole of her shoe. She climbs to her feet, brushing leaves off her backside.

 

“Alright, Connor, I’ve gotta head in for night. I’ve left ya a sandwich if ya feel up to it, there’s another water, and you’ve got the blanket to wrap up in. I’ll, uh…take care of your other clothes for you.” She forces herself to stop rambling as she gathers her return bundle.

 

“Thank ye, again.” His voice is faint, barely audible, and she has the feeling exhaustion is finally claiming him completely.

 

“You’re welcome. I…Good luck, I guess.” But he’s already out, snoring lightly with his head titled back against the bark. She leans down, taking the smoldering cigarette from his nerveless fingers, and stubs it out against the trunk of the tree. She looks him over again, taking a moment to tuck in the blanket a little more securely. Before she can talk herself out of it, she takes the small first aid kit from her bundle, places it beside the bottle of water, then straightens and turns, heading quickly back home.

 

As she walks through the woods so familiar she doesn’t even need a trail to find her way, she lets her mind wander over the fact that although Connor is an escaped convict, he is very much _not_ from the nearby prison and therefore must have come quite a ways before collapsing in her woods. She spends part of the walk back wondering where he might’ve come from and the other part thinking about his request for a hymn. It certainly matches up with a lot of the tattoos she noticed while she was helping him change clothes. Not to mention the two rosaries.

 

It doesn’t occur to Maggie to question the fact that he’s very obviously Irish until she is tucked up safe and warm in her own room with his ragged, filthy prison uniform stashed in the corner between her bed and the wall.

 

When she falls asleep, she dreams of funerals, tornados, and rosary beads.


	2. 2

_“Ye look good, Roc.”_

_“You two don’t.”_

…

 

_“Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold.”Andre Maurois_

…

 

Day 2:

 

Maggie spends most of the day physically distracted by family activities and small day-to-day issues that inevitable crop up near big holidays. Not that her mind doesn’t constantly wander back to the broken man in the woods; she just doesn’t allow herself time to dwell. He’s had food and some actual sleep, so he might’ve even found the strength to get up and move on.

 

She shakes her head, shoving Connor’s haunted visage from her mind, and forces herself to think about what to get Annette for Christmas this year.

 

It’s not until mid-afternoon that she even has a moment to herself to step out onto the porch and just take a deep breath. As the screen door bangs shut, Maggie’s breath clouds up in front of her face, and she shivers. She had no idea it had gotten so cold, and her mind forces through the constraints she’s put on it all day, snapping immediately to Connor.

 

There’s a steady drizzle falling (and has been for a good while now, judging from the sludgy state of the yard) that transforms what she can see of the woods from safe familiarity into something that offers little shelter and even less protection from the biting wind and chilly droplets.

 

“Shit.”

 

She knows he’s still in the woods without having to leave the porch. He was too far gone yesterday for some soup and a bottle of water to revive him, and she’s been lying to herself all day by thinking otherwise.

 

The first place she goes is the kitchen, setting up a fresh pot of coffee to brew and digging out the thermos she used to take out in the woods when she would go “camping” with Shawn and Beth.

 

She snatches a trash bag out of the pantry and proceeds to stuff it full of blankets and towels, just managing to avoid her family as she gathers what she thinks she might need. She throws on a raincoat and sprints out to barn, dodging puddles and trying not to notice that the rain’s picked up some.

 

The barn is temporarily abandoned, as the two horses they own are currently on loan to an autism therapy center for their holiday events and the chickens have their own little coop. She stashes the trash bag in the stall farthest from the door, knowing the hay loft would be safer but also knowing she’d never be able to get Connor up the ladder. Assuming she can get him to the barn at all. Assuming he’s still—

 

No. She can’t think like that.

 

She races back to the house, brushing past Beth and just avoiding sending the smaller girl flying into a wall.

 

“Geez, Maggie, what’s your problem?!?”

 

But she doesn’t pay any attention to her sister and tries to think if there’s anything else she should take with her. It’s going to be hell getting Connor from the woods to the barn by herself, but she can’t think of any other solution except to tell someone, and she doesn’t really think that’s the best idea.

 

Especially since she hasn’t found the time to get rid of that prison uniform in her bedroom yet.

 

She pours the coffee into the thermos and passes through the family room on the way out. Annette is folding laundry and listening to some show on the television where people are running around on a stage, yelling and generally being chaotic.

 

Maggie can relate to those people right about now.

 

“Headin’ out for a walk, I’ll be back after a while.”

 

Annette glances up. “It’s raining and freezing out…you sure that’s the best idea?”

 

Maggie waves the thermos and pulls her raincoat a little more tightly around herself as she throttles down the wave of panic washing through her stomach. “I’ll be fine. Got a book, might go sit and read in the barn for a while. Gettin’ a bit crowded in here, if ya know what I mean.”

 

Annette smiles indulgently and returns to her folding. “Well, you’ve done dumber things for worse reasons. Just come back in if you get too cold, and don’t say I didn’t warn you if you catch your death.”

 

Maggie chokes back the rising bile in her throat, manages a half-way normal sounding, “Yes, ma’am,” and is out the door before she can run into anyone else. She pauses long enough to stash the thermos in the barn then takes off at a dead run into the trees.

 

The few minutes it takes to reach Connor in the woods are some of the most confusing of Maggie’s life. She’s breathing so hard, sucking in the cold, stinging air through her nose and blowing it back out in great, steaming puffs. She’s doing her best to even out her breathing as she goes, though panic is working very hard against that control. And she has no idea why she’s so worried about a stranger that, by all rights, she should be terrified or repulsed by.

 

She’s certain he’s already gone as soon as she spots him (didn’t she _specifically_ tell him not to do that?), and she nearly throws up on the spot.

 

He’s a ghostly, horrible grayish color that blends with the soaked, gray blanket he’s still wrapped in. Sometime in the night, he either lay down or simply slipped sideways because his cheek is pressed into the freezing, sodden leaves, and she doesn’t think he’d stay like that if he was able to move.

 

“Connor?” She can barely hear herself over the shushing of the rain falling in steady sheets around them, and she drops to her knees next to him. His skin is icy as she presses her fingers to his wrist. She doesn’t allow herself anything as foolish as hope, but she does let one small, desperate wish escape when she feels a faint pulse pressing back against her thumb.

 

She takes his face gently in her hands, wiping away the water that streams around his nose and mouth.

 

“Can ya hear me? Are ya still in there?”

 

His bruised eyelids flicker at the sound of her voice, and he moans faintly. It seems that’s the best response she’s going to get.

 

“I’ve got to move you, and it’s not going to feel very good, but I’m here, so…you, uh, you don’t have to worry. It’ll be okay.”

 

Maggie wonders sarcastically for a moment when she got so good at lying.

 

She looks around the woods, taking in the rain, the trees, everything around them, thinking now would have been a great time for a vehicle of some sort. Of course, a car would never have fit between the trees, much less made it all the way out here without her family noticing something, but that’s not the point. The point is, she’s about to have to drag this man who, though he is quite starved, probably outweighs her by forty or fifty pounds, for over half a mile, and she’s not at all sure she can do it.

 

Even as she’s thinking, she knows his time is draining out of him with each freezing drop of water that rolls off his face. Her stomach is twisting, she’s trying very hard not to panic, and a tiny voice deep inside keeps asking why the hell she cares so much about a dying criminal she’s never met before yesterday.

 

Maybe because of simple human compassion. Or maybe because she hates to see something so helpless suffering.

 

But really it’s because he’s so very broken, and she’s never wanted to fix anything so badly in her entire life.

 

Her eyes come to rest on the blanket he’s still wrapped in, and she nods, realizing there’s no other way she can get him back to the barn. She begins to push and pull him into place as gently as she can, but she’s terrified she’s going to do worse damage than has already been done.

 

When he fails to react at all other than to continue his shallow, faint breathing, she gives up any attempt at being gentle, realizing he’s probably got less time than she thought. After a couple of minutes of manhandling, she finally has him laid out on his side on the blanket.

 

Taking one more precious moment to actually use her brain instead of panicking, she glances around the area, grabbing anything that leaves signs of the convict’s brief stay in her woods. The empty water bottles, the ruined sandwich he never got around to eating, and the first aid kit all get tossed onto the blanket with him. After using the last bit of time she thinks she can spare, Maggie knots the blanket around his shoulders to keep him from sliding off the far end. Then she picks up the corners nearest to his feet, grits her teeth, and _pulls_.

 

Before many minutes have passed, she realizes she’s soaking wet despite her rain coat. After another few minutes have passed, she realizes she is freezing, though she can only imagine how cold Connor is. Her arms are sore, her fingers are going numb, silent tears are dripping down her face, and she’s not even halfway back.

 

Maggie speeds up.

 

What took twenty minutes of walking in the brisk evening air and four minutes of sprinting through an increasing drizzle takes a couple of lifetimes when dragging a nearly-dead, escaped convict through the woods in the pouring rain. Maggie wonders briefly when her life became the trailer for a cheesy horror movie.

 

When she stumbles and drops the blanket, lurching into the brush and causing him to roll sideways and thump into a log, he doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t moan or even flutter his eyelids in protest.

 

Maggie bites her lip, shoves him back on the blanket, re-gathers her corners, and moves a little faster.

 

Later on, she won’t remember much of the way back except the cold, the wet, and the worry. The moment she finally gets him into the empty stall, she almost weeps with relief.

 

This feeling lasts until she opens up the soaking blanket and one again presses her fingers to his wrist, searching for a pulse and shuddering at the feel of his damp, gelid skin. She quickly divests him of the blanket and is in no way surprised to find that he’s soaked down to the skin.

 

Brushing aside her sudden, acute, and pointless embarrassment, Maggie methodically strips him down, remembering at the last moment to get a dry blanket under him rather than leaving his bare skin to the mercy of the straw on the floor of the stall. Though he’s not in much shape to complain at the moment.

 

Grabbing a towel, she sets about briskly rubbing him down and doing her best to ignore the ever-present heat that’s rebuilding behind her face. As she towel dries his slowly thawing skin, she takes a bit more notice of the little details about Connor’s body that she didn’t allow herself to pay attention to the night before.

 

The sweeping, stylized lines of the tattoo on the side of his neck compared to the delicately intricate knot work of the one on his forearm.

 

The way the two rosaries he wears obviously go together but are subtly different.

 

And so, so very many scars.

 

But she’ll have to think about that later because he’s dry now, but he’s not warming up very well, and he’s still not responding. His pulse is faint but still present, so Maggie figures she might as well go for broke.

 

“Gotta get your feet wet sometime,” she mutters, unzipping her rain coat. She sheds the cold, soaked garment, annoyed to find herself similarly soaked, though she’s blessedly not nearly as cold as Connor. She sighs, stripping off her shirt, boots, and pants. Before she can get chilled or force herself to stop and think about what she’s doing, she slides down next to Connor on the dry blanket, grabs another from the sack she brought out, and wraps the two of them in a double layer of fleece.

 

“Definitely not the best idea I’ve ever had,” she sighs, locating one of his arms and slowly chaffing some warmth back into the skin. As her hands run briskly over Connor’s sinewy, scarred muscles, she reluctantly murmurs, “Not the worst, either.”

 

Maggie has to force her mind to go clinical and as blank as possible as she works up and down Connor’s unresponsive body, giving herself swift mental kicks every time she starts to linger on any particular area for too long or with too much interest.

 

She is only human, after all, and she does have both eyes and nerve endings. She will not, however, allow herself to molest a comatose, hypothermic convict who can’t even defend his own honor.

 

As both their temperatures begin to climb under the layers of blankets, Maggie finds these kicks less and less effective in redirecting her thoughts. When she has to stretch and reach around him in order to work on his back, she finds herself suppressing more than just a groan. She is pressed shoulder to ankle against this complete stranger (both of them somewhat less than fully clothed), but his body is firm in all the right places, is definitely starting to reach proper temperature, and is _quite_ a bit more responsive now. She fidgets, a little ashamed at herself for not pulling away to a more respectful distance.

 

His back now warmed over, she lets her hands wander upwards, tracing the line of his shoulder blades, the tendons in the back of his neck, the damp warmth of his hairline, the ropes of muscles in his biceps, and finally (with a guilty rushing sensation swooping through her stomach like she’s just fallen from a great height…or maybe jumped) the tired, worn lines of his face.

 

His facial hair is rough, shaggy even, and the scrape of it on the pads of her fingers send tingles up her arms. She strays upwards, moving from his beard to his cheeks, tracing the dark, bruised circles under his eyes and the delicate sweep of his eyelashes. She runs her thumbs over his eyebrows, leaning over him a little as she smoothes the messy lines into place.

 

Then her eyes flit back to his lips, an area she stringently avoided but can’t seem to ignore. There’s a tremor in her fingers as she gently touches the chapped skin, wincing at the thought of how long he must’ve been exposed out there before she found him.

 

She wonders for a moment if she’s _actually_ leaning closer or if she’s imagining it.

 

Maggie’s mind understandably wanders even as her hands do, and at least ten seconds pass with her staring into Connor’s eyes before she’s hit with the realization that he’s a) awake; b) staring right back at her; and c) still pressed rather intimately against her…for warmth’s sake, of course.

 

She wrenches her entire body away and puts as much space between them as the blanket will allow.

 

“ Rainin’ out?” he rasps.

 

She can’t help the laugh that bursts out as the tense knot of anxiety in her stomach dissolves suddenly.

 

“Welcome back.” She has to clamp down the impulsive, giddy urge to kiss him and instead extracts herself from their cocoon to grab the thermos and some dry sweats from the trash bag. His eyes follow her sluggishly until she rejoins him, already shivering from her brief contact with the air; the temperature is still plummeting, and she’s doubly glad she brought him to the barn. Should’ve offered it to him last night.

 

She expects him to flinch at the contact of her chilled skin against his now warm body, but he simply continues to silently watch her.

 

“Feel like some dry clothes and hot coffee?”

 

Clothes are definitely the first order of business if Maggie wants to accomplish anything, so she mentally braces herself for the intimacy and helps him as quickly into the sweats as she can. Despite their renewed warmth, her fingers fumble and slip a little every time they come in contact with his skin, and she’s nearly shattered by the time he’s dressed again.

 

She helps him shift until they’re sitting side by side under the same blanket, and she pours the steaming coffee into the lid of the thermos. Just as she helped him with the soup the day before, she keeps her hands wrapped around his while he drinks, silently savoring the feel of his hands clasped between her own.

 

By the end of his third cup, he’s drinking on his own. He’s also beginning to resemble a person again, rather than a walking corpse, and she tells him so. He responds with a vague half-smile and holds the cup out silently for another refill.

 

When they reach the end of the thermos’s contents, Maggie regretfully realizes how much time has passed since she left the house. She even more regretfully realizes that she’ll have to don her own clothes, still soaking wet and freezing, in order to return. It’s never a good idea to go out in one set of clothes and come home in a different set.

 

She learned her lesson about that a while back.

 

She helps Connor settle into a more comfortable resting position and adds another blanket over his feet in case he needs it.

 

“I know ya know, but just so it’s said, ya gotta be quiet out here. Family’s not too far away now, just over in the house, but no one should bother you out here.” Connor doesn’t respond, his eyes following her as she gathers things from around the stall. The weight of his gaze finally stops her nervous movements, and she faces him again.

 

“Ya need something before I go?”

 

“Ye comin’ back?” he asks quietly.

 

Maggie crouches beside the prone man, ignoring the sharp, unexpected pang that pierces the left side of her chest. Without thinking, she reaches out and gently brushes some of the hair off of his forehead and out of his eyes.

 

“Yeah. Gotta wait for everyone to go to bed, but I’ll bring ya some more coffee and some hot food. Ya need to rest for now, though. You’re safe here, I’ve go ya.”

 

He nods slowly, looking uncertain, but his eyelids are dropping, and he’s near to passing out. She straightens from her crouch and turns, heading out as quietly as she can. As she walks away, he mumbles something, and her breath catches in her throat, but she keeps walking. Got to get back the family.

 

Later, standing under the scalding spray in the shower, she lets his words stream around her, turning them over and over in her mind.

 

“Ain’t worried about food.”

 

Her stomach clenches a little, and, despite the steam, she suddenly can’t seem to get warm enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading so far. Please take a moment to leave a review in the little boxy on your way out.


	3. 3

_“In all secrets there is a kind of guilt, however beautiful or joyful they may be, or for what good end they may be set to serve. Secrecy means evasion, and evasion means a problem to the moral mind.” Gilbert Parker_

…

 

_“The process of delving into the black abyss is to me the keenest form of fascination.” H. P. Lovecraft_

…

 

Days 3-8:

 

Connor spends the next few days mainly eating and sleeping. Maggie spends the next few days mainly bringing him food and watching him sleep. Or, as she prefers to call it, creeping.

 

He talks a lot in his sleep. She can’t understand all of it, but what she does hear is a lot of names. She wonders why, at first, until she realizes that Connor is worrier, they type of person whose sleep is constantly plagued with anxiety for others.

 

He prays in his sleep, too: haunting words that stick in her mind on repeat like song lyrics after the radio’s been shut off. Maggie doesn’t recognize most of the prayers, figures they’re just heartfelt words of desperation, but he seems to know a couple of them by rote and repeats them often.

 

Over the next week, Maggie loses count of how many times she watches him, his lips moving silently or speaking aloud, brow creased, lines etched deep into his face. There’s a vein that stands out in the middle of his forehead that pulses anxiously, especially standing out when he’s having a particularly bad dream.

 

This apparently turns out to be most nights. She realizes very early on that something is eating away at Connor from the inside out, something he either won’t or can’t talk about. During the second day he spends inside the barn, she has to bandage his fingers, as he’s bitten his nails bloody.

 

She can’t do anything for his chewed lips but bring him some medicated ointment and hope he uses it.

 

His eyes are haunted, a graveyard of miseries, but they are a little less empty than a couple of days ago. What little life remains in them will suddenly go out sometimes, leaving a void in its place that Maggie can’t even begin to understand how to breach.

 

It’s frightening to watch, like watching the life drain from someone. The first time it happened, she panicked, thinking he was having a stroke. It took nearly two full minutes of calling his name and even going so far as shaking him in order to get a response, and she didn’t leave him for the rest of that night.

 

She figures small steps might be a good first step to crossing that void.

 

Around the middle of the week, Maggie takes to holding Connor’s hand sometimes while she sits with him. She likes to think that, as a first step, it’s not such an intrusive one on her part, and, awake or asleep, he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

That’s not to say he’s been particularly verbose about his situation. Maggie comes to see him once during the daytime and for at least a couple of hours at night after her family’s cone to sleep. Most nights, they either sit in strangely comfortable silence or talk about nothing remotely important. Maggie catches him up on the current news, tells him about things she got up to during her mutinous adolescent phase. She almost makes him smile a couple of times. Once, there’s even a spark in his eyes, she’s almost sure of it.

 

She’s surprised to learn that, although he’s never attended university himself, he can speak at least six foreign languages fluently.

 

“Yest' mnogo veshchey obo mne, chto by udivit' Vas,” he murmurs, gazing down at their joined hands. He absently runs the pad of his thumb over her knuckles. She tries not to think about how it’s his only undamaged, bandage-free finger. “Non dovrei dirtelo. Si potrebbe scappare e lasciarmi qui.”

 

“That was…Italian and what?”

 

“Russian. Sorry if ‘m showin’ off too much. Habit.”

 

She smiles, squeezing his hand gently. “No, I like it, really. Ya don’t hear much of that around this place, and it almost sounds like music. It’s lovely.”

 

“Ce n'est pas aussi belle que votre musique.”

 

She has no clue what he’s saying, as the only foreign language her high school offered was Spanish, and she didn’t feel particularly adventurous when she got to college, but she can feel the pleased blush rising up her neck and heating the tips of her ears.

 

“Where’d you learn to speak all that?”

 

“Our mother insisted on it.”

 

She can tell he doesn’t realize he’s even said the words, that it’s something he’s said so often that it’s automatic. She hesitates, then changes her mind suddenly, and for the first time in a long time Maggie lets her curiosity get the better of her judgment.

 

“Our? Do ya have a sibling?”

 

He doesn’t so much shut down as fade out. He wilts back against the wall on which he was leaning, and his hand goes limp in hers. His eyes go completely vacant, and her first reaction is alarm: How deeply has her thoughtless comment wounded him? The fact that the injury was unintentional could hardly matter less. She should never have opened her mouth; the question couldn’t have been further from being her business, and…and…

 

“Connor?” _Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic_ …

 

“ ‘M fine. Just…y’mind if I go ahead an’ sleep? Been…pretty tired t’day, an’ all.”

 

She nods, swallowing hard against the painful lump in her throat. Stupid, stupid…she shouldn’t have pushed him!

 

She pulls her feet underneath herself, moving to stand, when a light tug on her hand pulls her attention back to him. She looks at Connor reluctantly, afraid he’ll see the shame and unwarranted hurt on her face. The man is tired and hurt, and she’s got no right to be upset that he wants to sleep.

 

“I didn’t mean to—”

 

He interrupts her quietly, cautiously. “Ain’t upset wit’ ye, not at all. There’s just…t’ings m’not ready t’deal wit’ yet. Dunno if I ever will be.”

 

There’s a long, loaded pause during which she thinks about his admission and he works out what to say next.

 

“I know I’ve no right t’ask ye fer anyt’in’ else, but I’ve got two requests.”

 

“What’s the first?”

 

“I’ll tell ye what I can when I’m ready an’ able, but I’m askin’ ye t’please give me a bit more time. Ye haven’t pushed, an’ ye’ve no idea how grateful I am fer dat. Ye just…ye gotta give me a bit more time.”

 

She thinks his request is fairly reasonable, if anything in this bizarre situation _can_ be considered reasonable. And she really shouldn’t have asked in the first place, she knows that; he’s being kind to her, though she feels she couldn’t deserve is much less at the moment.

 

“Alright, what’s the second request?”

 

He’s suddenly reluctant, avoiding her eyes, acting almost…what? Shy?

 

“That first night, ye…well, ye sang t’me, an’ I really enjoyed it. Was wond’rin’ if ye might see yer way t’sittin’ wit’ me til I was asleep, maybe singin’ another song or two.”

 

His eyes meet hers, and for a second she’s back in that tornado, and breathing clearly isn’t an option. Then they look away, the moment passes, and she’s able to remember that oxygen is important, though she can’t quite recall why.

 

He settles down in the makeshift bed they’ve slowly improved over the last few days. Maggie’s cobbled together a workable mattress from an old sleeping bag stuffed with hay, as well as managed to smuggle out a couple of throw pillows and an extra blanket. He claims to be quite comfortable, says he’s slept on worse, but she wonders sometimes.

 

“Would ya like another hymn tonight?”

 

“Fer th’first one, but maybe somethin’ different fer th’second? Somethin’ yer fond of.”

 

So she takes his hand again and moves right up against his side, sitting cross-legged in the straw next to where he lays. She smoothes the hair from his forehead, the tips of her fingers lingering over the line where the vein will inevitably stand out during his nightmares tonight. His eyes slip closed at her touch.

 

Her own eyes travel over the deep creases in his face; the weather-beaten, chapped skin; the purplish smudges beneath his eyes; the weeks of scruff that desperately needs to be shaved. She wonders for probably the hundredth time since she’s met him who he used to be and what he could have possibly done to deserve such a life as he has now.

 

And from that thought comes the memory of the perfect hymn. She begins softly, humming the tune a little as she makes sure she recalls the correct words. When she reaches her favorite verse, she fights the desire to wrap her arms around him and promise to make everything alright, but she doesn’t like to make promises she can’t keep, and even she isn’t sure of that one. She finishes a little more softly than she meant to, but the words come across all the same:

 

_At the breaking of the day,_

_When we anchor on the shore,_

_At the breaking of the day,_

_When the storms of life are o’er,_

_When our sorrow and our sighing,_

_Like a dream will pass away,_

_When we all shall meet together,_

_At the breaking of the day!_

 

As she finishes the last words of the refrain, she can’t stop the tear that slips down and lands on his face. She’s mortified until she realizes it’s landed amidst a few tears of his own. Rather than draw attention, she simply wipes her eyes and clears her throat.

 

“Alright, Prison Man, ya get one more, an’ that’s it. Your pretty beggin‘n’pleadin’ won’t work, so ya might as well save it.”

 

She startles a faint laugh from him, something she’s not managed before, and the tears on both sides are thankfully left unmentioned.

 

He’s pretty close to sleep, despite the brief interruption, so she chooses something soothing, something she remembers that used to help her sleep a long time ago.

 

“When I was little, my daddy would sing me this song. Said his daddy sang it to him and so on, all the way back to my great-great granddaddy that went overseas and fought in World War I. He said the soldiers liked to sing this song when they’d start missing all the folks they left back home. If ya don’t think it’d sting ya too badly, I can sing that one for ya.”

 

At his nod, she starts in once more, staying low and steady throughout the song this time, trying to make her tone as soothing as possible. He was already near to passing out, and she can see he’s clearly only holding out in order to hear the end of the song. The song isn’t very long, though, and before she knows it, she’s reached the second and last chorus:

 

_There's a long, long trail a-winding_

_Into the land of my dreams,_

_Where the nightingales are singing_

_And a white moon beams._

_There's a long, long night of waiting_

_Until my dreams all come true;_

_Till the day when I'll be going down_

_That long, long trail with you._

 

“Goodnight, Connor.” She leans over and gently kisses him on the forehead. In this moment of relaxation, of almost sleep, he looks a decade or two younger and so much less troubled.

 

“Thanks, Maggie,” he murmurs sleepily. “Bein’ alone’s much better when you’re here…‘M glad Murphy sent ya t’me.”

 

Then he’s out, and Maggie is left sitting silently by his side, with his words hanging in the air like smoke. She doesn’t know what else to do but keep holding his hand and listening to his light snores mix with the softly weeping wind as it sweeps by outside the barn.

 

 

 

**_ Translations:  _ **

_(Russian) Yest' mnogo veshchey obo mne, chto by udivit' Vas. – There are a lot of things about me that would surprise you._

 

_(Italian) Non dovrei dirtelo. Si potrebbe scappare e lasciarmi qui. - I shouldn't tell you. You might run away and leave me here._

_(French) Ce n'est pas aussi belle que votre musique. – It’s not as beautiful as your music._

**_ Music Credits:  _ **

__

_“There’s a Long, Long Trail”:_ _lyrics by Stoddard King; music by Alonzo "Zo" Elliott_

_“At the Breaking of the Day”: lyrics by Fanny Crosby, John Sweney, William Kirkpatrick, & Henry L. Gilmour; music by John R. Sweney_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this far. Let me know if you have any suggestions, questions, or issues. And no, I will not reimburse or replace your tissues. I’ve already used all of my own.


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, acknowledgements: Siarh, happy late birthday! Here’s your epic chapter that I somehow got up before I moved; wouldn’t even have this story if it weren’t for you. Little Miss Tightly Wound, thanks for the encouragement! Karissa, if you’re reading this, welcome to the circle and the shenanigans. Rhanon Brodie, this chapter would not proceed to rock all our faces off if not for you. For everyone who waited very patiently for this chapter, thanks so much.
> 
> Last bit of author’s note before I let you loose: I actually had a soundtrack to this one, which is weird because I don’t normally listen to music while writing. If you’re interested, “Crazy on You” and “What About Love” by Heart and “Rhiannon.” “The Chain,” and “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac are great for setting the mood for this one. Thanks for listening.

_“My love is the evenin' breeze touchin' your skin._

_The gentle, sweet singin' of leaves in the wind._

_The whisper that calls after you in the night_

_And kisses your ear in the early moonlight._

_And you don't need to wonder, you're doing fine._

_My love, the pleasure's mine._

_Let me go crazy on you._

_Crazy on you._

_Let me go crazy, crazy on you, ohhh._

_Wild man's world is cryin' in pain._

_What you gonna do when everybody's insane?_

_So afraid of one who's so afraid of you._

_What you gonna do...ohhh...”_

_Heart, “Crazy On You”_

_…_

_“At which point should we let go and do what we want to do, and when should we submit to rules? Coming to terms with our true natures and who we really are has always been a fascination to humans. I know it fascinates me.”_

_Hugh Jackman_

_…_

 

Days 10-13:

 

The days pass slowly. They fall into a routine of brief daytime visits and longer nighttime ones. Unfortunately, due to need to stealth and concealment, Maggie isn’t able to offer Connor much more hygienic conveniences than a wipe down once a day, deodorant, and tooth brushing. He’s obviously not had a shower in a quite a while, much less an opportunity for a shave.

 

When his scraggly hair starts flopping in his eyes, she helps him wash it in a bucket of warm water she barely manages to get out to the barn without being caught and gives him what he admits is his first haircut in months. He thanks her, and she simply smiles, refraining from telling him he looks years younger and yards better.

 

She’s not able to get much more warm water out to the barn inconspicuously, though, and it doesn’t help that the temperature is barely above freezing. Connor’s doing so much better than he has been, but Maggie knows after years of filthy, exhausting work on a farm that sometimes you just don’t feel human until you can get completely clean and groomed.

 

So a couple of days later when Annette actually manages to talk everyone else into an all-day, last minute shopping trip to the nearby outlet mall, Maggie seizes the opportunity with both hands.

 

“I’d love to go, but I should really get started on the reading list one of my professors emailed out early,” Maggie says in what she hopes is a convincingly regretful tone. Under Annette’s scrutinizing gaze, she adds sheepishly, “And…there might be…a guy…I want to come visit for a bit…”

 

It’s not a complete lie.

 

Annette’s eyes soften a smidge, and she sighs indulgently. “Don’t do anything overly stupid, and have supper ready on the table by six-thirty sharp.”

 

Maggie grins in relief. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

She waits until the car’s been gone for a solid twenty minutes before ushering Connor quickly inside and up the stairs.

 

“Really appreciate this, Maggie, ye’ve no idea.”

 

She waves off his thanks, gesturing around the small bathroom she shares with her siblings, suddenly very aware of being so close to him in such a small, enclosed space. “There’s towels, soap, and shavin’ stuff in the obvious places. “Toss your dirty clothes out so I can wash ‘em. My room’s two doors down when you’re done. Just yell if ya need anythin’.”

 

He raises an eyebrow as a gentle smirk crosses his face. “Think ye covered th’necessities…what else y’think I might be needin’ durin’ shower time, lass? Wanna lend a hand?”

 

She nearly chokes on the “yes” that reflexively tries to slip out, instead clearing her throat and attempting something much more rational but still hospitable.

 

“Just…if you…I’m…gonna get some…I’m gonna do some dinner prep…so…just…yeah, okay.”

 

“Don’t think I recognize th’language yer usin’ dere, lass.”

 

As she can’t honestly offer anything constructive (or coherent) in return, she settles for turning a bright crimson and shoves him into the bathroom, slamming the door on that ridiculously inviting smirk. She waits long enough for him to toss out his clothes, then pitches the lot into washing machine before escaping to the tranquil sanctuary of the kitchen.

 

There are several moments of slow, measured breathing exercises before she trusts herself to hold a knife safely. When Maggie is confident she’s regained some semblance of manual and mental control, she commences chopping vegetables for a quick stir fry.

 

She’s been peeling and chopping for several minutes when she hears the water cut on overhead. She figures he must’ve decided to shave first, and honestly she doesn’t blame him. Caveman was the polite descriptive word, really. She glances at the clock, calculating roughly how much time she has before she has to relegate Connor back to the barn. Annette will be as good as her word; not one member of her family will enter the house before six-thirty, so plenty of time left.

 

She’s been taking some books out to the barn for him to read, but he’s probably tired of sitting in a stall all day, so Maggie figures she’ll offer to let him roam the house, maybe watch some TV before making him some dinner and sending him back out.

 

He really seems to have improved over the last couple of days, she muses. Almost one hundred percent, at least physically, and mentally he’s not so bad anymore, either. She’s even been able to stop bandaging his fingers and letting the chewed places heal.

 

But she can tell from the nightmares he still wakes up from once or twice a night and the way he still randomly drifts into unfocused silences that he’s not quite ready to take off on his own yet, either.

 

From his comment in the bathroom, though, he might just be taking some important steps in mental improvement. At any rate, he’s definitely allowing himself to think about less serious things than whoever this Murphy is.

 

As the shower runs overhead, Maggie’s thoughts drift back again and again to his question. God above, she wanted so very badly to say yes. Unfortunately, she nearly loses a finger to her chef’s knife when she gets a little too engrossed in deciding exactly how she might be lending that hand if she were upstairs right now.

 

Won’t be any lending of dismembered hands, so best take a break before she loses something she can’t replace. Figuring she’s done enough prep for now anyway, Maggie hastily places the chopped vegetables in the fridge, changes out the laundry, all the while shaking her head at her own foolishness. Might as well banish these ridiculous, hormonal-teenager fantasies of Connor before she has to face him again.

 

But now she has no idea what she’s supposed to do with herself. She eventually gives up trying to fight the fantasies and figures she’ll head upstairs to wait in her room like she said she would. She pauses as she passes the bathroom, though, head automatically cocking to the side to listen better.

 

Was that…what was the noise?

 

Worry immediately pools in her stomach. Maybe he isn’t as recovered as she’d thought. He could be having a flashback or falling out or…Or maybe she should just see if he’s okay.

 

She raises her hand to knock, intending to ask if he needs something or if she can help. Just as her knuckles hit the wood, a second sound drifts from the bathroom, deeper and more guttural than the first. It’s growling, drawn out…and very definitely a moan. And it sends shivers through every nerve in her body.

 

Some of them twice.

 

Her fingers slide uselessly down the front of the door, all thoughts of knocking forgotten as she leans forward, straining to hear more. There’s a faint thud of wet flesh slapping something hard and solid, and in her mind she can picture him: one hand pressed flat against the wall, head bowed under the streaming spray, his other hand placed much lower down on himself; the corded muscles in his shoulders and right arm tensing and releasing methodically as a fervid hiss slips from between his lips.

 

She draws blood from her lower lip in a sudden, furious effort to not answer his fervent exhalation with one of her own.

 

Maggie’s traitorous fingers are reaching for the door handle against all of her better judgment when the water abruptly shuts off. She stands, frozen in a moment of complete petrification, listening to Connor shuffle around the small room. She finally awakens enough feeling in her mental faculties to realize she probably shouldn’t be caught creeping outside the door like a desperate stalker. She’s just turning back to her room when he calls her name.

 

Shit…does he know she’s there, that she heard him? It takes her a moment to clear her constricted throat and squeeze some much needed air into her paralyzed lungs.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Dere’s no clothes in here…maybe ye could leave ‘em outside th’door or somethin’?”

 

Shit!

 

“Sorry! Forgot to bring some!” She flees to the relative safety of her room, cursing herself for forgetting something as obvious as clothes.

 

Because it would be _terrible_ for him to be running naked around her house.

 

How many times in one day, _in one hour_ , is this man going to reduce her to such an inarticulate state of mortification? Her face burns with a mix of embarrassment and arousal as she bends over and digs through the stash of clean sweats she’s been keeping in the back of her closet.

 

As she straightens, Maggie wonders how it’s possible for this one particular man to make her feel like such an eager, hormonal, clumsy teenager desperately trying to lose her virginity. She didn’t even feel like that when she was a teenager trying to lose her virginity. She shakes her head, sardonically amused with her own absurd, overly intense reactions to what is clearly nothing more than a man taking a shower.

 

But, oh, to have been a fly on the wall of that shower…or in the shower…and not a fly…maybe between him and the wall, the scalding water streaming over them, her fingers clenched in his new haircut that’s just long enough to be graspable, his teeth on her throat, her hand sliding down to—

 

“Maggie?”

 

She whirls around, gasping, the sweatpants flying from her suddenly nerveless fingers. Connor stands less than ten feet away, just inside the door of her bedroom. She has no idea how he didn’t step on that floorboard in the hallway, the one that screams like a banshee and would’ve let her know he was coming.

 

The man moves like a panther.

 

Her eyes widen as she takes in every glorious, damp inch of him: water droplets dripping from his hair down his smoothly shaven cheeks, continuing south over what seems like miles of bare, surprisingly tanned skin before disappearing into the towel he’s slung around his hips.

 

 _Rather low around his hips_ , Maggie’s traitorous, over-stimulated brain qualifies.

 

“Didn’t quite hear ye through th’door, so I came t’see…”

 

His sentence trails off, hanging in the air as he takes in her dangling hand, flushed skin, and gaping jaw. His eyebrows lower in concern, and he glances down at himself before hesitantly looking back up.

 

“I, uh...didn’t mean t’come out so bare, as it were. I c’n just—”

 

“No, you’re fine!” It comes out a little too shrill, and Maggie mentally slaps herself. Knowing she needs to get him clothes quickly before she does something (even more) stupid, she snatches the pants from the floor and shoves them at his abdomen, forcing him back a couple of startled steps.

 

“It’s not like I haven’t seen ya naked before,” she adds hastily, using false bravado in an attempt to cover the fact that she won’t meet his confused gaze. She presses the pants harder into his middle, wishing he’d do anything other than just stand there staring at her. Something, take the damn pants and put them on, or even just—

 

His hands close gently but firmly around her wrists. She swallows hard against the sudden knot in her throat. This is definitely close kin to one of those things on her wish list, but she doesn’t dare—

 

“What’s got ye so flustered? Yer tremblin’ somethin’ fierce. Y’alright? Somethin’ happen?”

 

She’s struggling to control her breathing as warmth radiates outward from his touch. What the hell is wrong with her that she can’t even look him in the face? She’s bathed this man and hauled his half-dead carcass through the woods. Hell, she’s been completely naked with him, pressed solidly up against every hard inch of him from cheek to toe and everything – _everything_ – in between. She’s even felt—

 

“Maggie.” Soft, hardly more than a murmur, accompanied by his finger under her chin. He tilts her face up until their gazes lock. The tempest she saw the first time he looked in her eyes is still there, will probably never go away, but it’s distant now, hidden behind something new that flashes out as he studies her silently.

 

“What’re you thinkin’?” she asks suddenly, astonished by her own courage.

 

“That I want ye, an’ I’ve no right. That yer th’best thing these worn out eyes’ve seen in a long time. That there’s so much I haven’t told ye b’cause I’m afraid ye’ll run screamin’ or come after me wit’ a shotgun an’ th’sheriff in tow.”

 

“Ya sure you’re not just reactin’ to almost dyin’ and latchin’ on to the first friendly face you see?” She’s (mostly) joking.

 

“Come close t’dyin’ before; dat ain’t exactly how it works. Why’re ye so worked up all of a sudden, Maggie?”

 

She has to fight the urge to melt just a little every time he says her name like that.

 

“Somethin’ like what you said, only without the runnin’ and screamin’ bit. Ya make me feel like I’ve got my first crush on the quarterback or somethin’, and I barely know ya. And…well, I’ve got to seem so…I don’t know, sheltered and juvenile to ya.”

 

He releases her wrist and takes her face in both hands. “Ye seem like a woman who dragged a grown man outta th’woods on her own. Ye seem like a woman who’s taken care of a broken bastard that owes her everythin’ an’ can never repay her.”

 

“You don’t have to—”

 

At the sudden flash in his eyes she breaks off, the words stuck in her throat. He waits, not speaking, not hesitating, and very clearly asking for permission. She is absolutely transfixed by the tempest behind his eyes and couldn’t look away if she wanted to.

 

So she nods.

 

And he kisses her, slowly at first, exploring, fingers sliding back from her face and tangling in her hair, echoing the twist of his tongue against hers. Maggie is suddenly immersed in a world of sensations she never knew was possible from just a kiss and a caress. If she were thinking straight, she might find the complete shut out of the rest of the world a bit odd, like something out of a fantasy, but at the moment her mind is focused on only one thing.

 

Then one of them moans, she’s never sure afterwards who, but it’s the catalyst that sets off an explosion. Suddenly her arms are around him, and she’s gripping for purchase as if she’s plunging off a cliff with no way back. She’s sandwiched roughly between Connor and the wall, both of them inextricably plummeting together through an abrupt tornado of tongues and teeth and fingernails.

 

The storm lasts for less than a minute, and by the time they put a couple of inches between them, his towel has disappeared, along with most of the buttons on her shirt, and she’s pretty sure she’ll never catch her breath again. From the tenderness across her chest and shoulders, there are probably red finger marks forming already, and she’s fairly certain she might’ve drawn blood down his back.

 

Connor’s eyes are clamped shut, his breath ragged and scalding against her face, and for one detached moment of random clarity Maggie notes that he has apparently taken advantage of the bottle of Scope she left on the bathroom sink.

 

She reaches for him again, far from sated, but he inexplicably, incomprehensibly resists.

 

“Ye don’t…y’don’t know me, Maggie, y’don’t know what I’ve done ‘r who I am…Feck, girl, yer not a kid, but I’m prob’ly old enough t’be yer da!”

 

Her voice is hard and determined as she pulls his face level with hers, giving him a good shake to make him open his eyes. “First, my daddy’s probably old enough to be _your_ daddy, so you can end that train of thought right there. Second, I ain’t askin’ ya to marry me or even commit. You want to go collapse in some other woman’s woods next week and sleep in her barn while she nurses ya back to health, you be my guest. And third.”

 

She cuts herself off here, tugging him forward suddenly until Connor stumbles a little, his palms slapping the wall to keep himself from actually crushing her against the wall.

 

“There will be untold amounts of gratuitous violence if ya stop kissin’ me again without a _damn_ good reason.”

 

They don’t last long against the wall, and before Maggie knows it, she’s pinned Connor to her twin bed and has shed everything but one last damp, flimsy layer that only just separates them. He pulls her down so she’s pressed against him from sternum to shin bone, and he rolls until Maggie is again squeezed between the wall and his captivating heat.

 

As his tongue soothes the tender spot his teeth left on her neck and traces a tickling, damp line along her skin up to her earlobe, he murmurs, “Wanted ye fer a while. Dreamed about ye sometimes, too. Ever since I woke up wit’ye wrapped around me in th’barn.”

 

Her eyes roll back as his hands his tongue’s roaming explorations and his voice vibrates through her until her breath is coming in short, shallow pants.

 

“Started thinkin’ about ye in th’shower…got me so feckin’ hard, couldn’t help m’self…how ye felt runnin’ yer hands over me, pressed so damn hot all th’way down me…Christ, Maggie, yer so…”

 

And then the real words stop for a while, replaced instead by every pronounceable syllable in the English language and some Maggie’s sure are foreign.

 

She forces a pause at one point only long enough to retrieve a condom from the back of her nightstand drawer, but once she’s rolled it one him, she finds herself rotated and spun around until she’s upright on her knees, hands braced on the wall for support. Connor’s lips brush against her ear, his front pressed against every inch of her back, and the tip of his cock throbbing gently against the thin cloth between them.

 

“How much d’ye like dese panties?” he growls. She can only produce a half-choked squeak and nod frantically. His hands shift on her hips, there’s a slight pressure, and suddenly her underwear ceases to be an issue. His fingers dig in hard, painfully, and absolutely.

 

“Are ye sure, Maggie? I can’t…I won’t be able t’stop after dis, so if you don’t—”

 

Her paralyzed vocal cords make a miraculous recovery as she practically roars, “Get. Inside. Me. Now. Dammit!”

 

She has to admit he definitely knows how to take a hint.

 

The first time is fast and harsh, bordering on brutal. He wasn't lying when he said he wouldn't stop, and he doesn't, no matter how loud she gets. She's never had sex like this before, hard and _so_ rough and exactly how she needs it. She's never had sex with someone who is infinitely capable of fucking her and himself senseless at the same time, all without the stale odor of frat boys and booze surrounding them amidst drunken apologies of, "Sorry, babe, I'll get ya off next time."

 

There’s barely a pause in between; she literally manages three shuddering breaths before he’s sliding down the bed, yanking Maggie underneath him, and flipping her over. She chokes out a startled but pleased, “Jesus, Connor!” just as his mouth resumes its earlier assault on hers.

 

He releases her lips just long enough to groan, “Lord’s name, girl,” as he sinks hip deep into once more.

 

The second time is as lingering and unhurried as the first was frantic and forceful, and when Connor’s mouth leaves hers, it’s only to find somewhere on her body where he hasn’t tested her level of sensitivity yet.

 

“Yer moanin’ is heaven, but feck if I don’t love th’ sound o’ye screamin’ m’name,” Connor grins against her inner thigh. Then he resumes the activity upon which he was so intent before he interrupted himself, and Maggie has no compunctions about giving him exactly what he wants to hear.

 

A couple of hours and a frantic time-check later, they’ve managed to find a relatively comfortable position where they both mostly fit on the tiny bed.

 

“I don’t have to start cookin’ for a while yet,” Maggie sighs, sprawled across Connor’s chest. “I set an alarm just in case we fall asleep or somethin’.”

 

“Ye really plannin’ on goin’ t’sleep?” The question is accompanied by a pinch from his hand resting on the curve of her ass, and she stifles a yelp even though she knows there’s no one around to hear it.

 

“Not if ya keep that up,” she laughs, slapping his hand away. “Did your mama teach you that was the proper way to treat girls?”

 

“Not as such,” he murmurs against her neck, reaching down until he’s grasping both of her ass cheeks with his hands and dragging her fully on top of him. Grinning, she starts to ask if he’s really ready to go again, but her jaw snaps shut as pulls her hips down hard against the very hard evidence that yes, he is exceptionally ready to go again.

 

The insistent screech of the alarm clock finds them both extremely reluctant to wake, and Maggie doesn’t protest overly much when Connor chucks the unfortunate electronic device at the wall. She knows her family is due home in the next hour or so, however, so she manages to convince both herself and Connor that they do actually need to put some clothes on and get him back out to the barn.

 

“I meant to let ya watch some TV or have some civilized house time, but I don’t think there was much that we did that could be called ‘civilized’,” she grins, feeling a little goofy and a little shy as she pulls her socks back on. She sneaks occasional peeks at him while he dresses, still enthralled by the way his back muscles twist and flex under his skin as he leans forward to pull on the earlier abandoned sweatpants.

 

“So, ye’d rather we watched one o’dem soap operas or somethin’? Th’Young an th’Hopeless? Some shit like dat?” But he’s echoing her smile as he slips a t-shirt over his head followed by a sweatshirt.

 

Connor follows her back down the stairs, and when he automatically offers to help her finish preparing dinner, she doesn’t refuse. Sharing kitchen space with him while the two of them work in companionable silence is oddly domestic, though she couldn’t imagine a man less likely to be in this particular situation on a regular basis.

 

He flicks his eyes sideways at her when she snickers at the sudden mental image of him frosting cupcakes in nothing but a frilly pink apron. Of course, the image quickly morphs into one of her selfin the same outfit, performing the same task, only this time he’s even less clothed and his arms are reaching through hers to assist with the frosting.

 

She can only imagine the expression on her face now.

 

“Penny fer yer thoughts, lass?”

 

Despite the last three or four naked hours she’s spent with him, all it takes are those softly spoken words and _that look_ that he’s shooting her to send flames creeping up her neck and down between her thighs.

 

“Maybe…maybe later t’night. Let’s just…let’s just finish dinner for now.”

 

The corners of his eyes crinkle, and mischief is far too weak a description for the expression on _his_ face. “Alright,” he replies, seemingly letting the subject drop. He reaches into the refrigerator to retrieve the vegetables she prepared earlier and crosses the kitchen, offering Maggie the container. Their fingers brush, and she involuntarily looks up, meeting his eyes. His smirk is firmly in place, and Maggie has a nagging suspicion that Connor has a fairly good idea of exactly how central he is to her thoughts at the moment.

 

“Y’know, lass, ye’d look mighty fine fixin’ dinner in something a bit lacier an’more revealin’…could help ye inta somethin’ a lot less suitable than what yer wearin’, if ye like.”

 

Connor at least has the manners to pick up and wash the vegetables Maggie dropped before she kicks him out of the house and back to the barn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for the patience. I’m in the midst of moving most of the way across the country, so it will be a while before I get to the next chapter. Thought I’d let you have a happy ending this time. Thank you for reading, and please take a moment to leave a thought or two in the little box on your way out.


	5. 5

_“Life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone._

_I hear you call my name, and it feels like home_

_When you call my name it's like a little prayer._

_I'm down on my knees. I want to take you there._

_In the midnight hour I can feel your power._

_Just like a prayer, you know I'll take you there._

_I hear your voice. It's like an angel sighing._

_I have no choice, I hear your voice._

_Feels like flying._

_I close my eyes. Oh God, I think I'm falling_

_Out of the sky. I close my eyes._

_Heaven help me.”_

_Madonna, “Like a Prayer”_

_…_

_“If it were not for hopes, the heart would break.”_

_Thomas Fuller_

_…_

_“Being Irish, he had an abiding sense of tragedy, which sustained him through temporary periods of joy.”_

_William Butler Yeats_

…

 

Days 16-21:

 

The times she goes out to sit and talk with Connor or stay with him while he sleeps have transformed into something so vastly different that Maggie is staggered when she realizes how little time has actually passed. She almost can’t remember a time when she wasn’t hiding a convict in her father’s barn, lying about hiding said convict, and having stealthy and spectacular sex with him late into the night.

 

And early into the morning.

 

Annette has a far too knowing expression on her face each day when Maggie drags herself out of bed barely before noon. After one pointed question about whether Maggie is coming down with something, though, Annette leaves the issue alone, much to Maggie’s great relief.

 

Connor, of course, is also not making things any easier. A pinch here, a growled suggestion there, and within a minute Maggie finds herself unclothed and utterly undone. She’s not surprised in the least that the man’s proven to be rather insatiable.

 

She’s also not surprised when he doesn’t quite have the stamina he feels he should.

 

“You nearly starved to death less than three weeks ago. You are allowed to have some recovery time. We don’t need to go three times in a row every night,” she reminds him. Her words are lost in a muted moan she only just stifles as his fingers slip below the waistband of her panties.

 

“Then ye should stop temptin’ me, girl…can’t keep m’mind on nothin’ else when yer around.”

 

That’s nothing…Maggie can’t even keep her mind when he’s around.

 

…

 

She hasn’t given up on getting him to talk about himself, although she’s always careful not to push too hard. He’s more relaxed now, and though she can understand why, she’s pretty sure the easing of _some_ of his tension doesn’t completely extend to his past. So she starts slow.

 

“How’d ya get this one?” she asks quietly. They’re lying tangled together on his makeshift bed, blankets tossed haphazardly over random body parts to ward off the December chill. She’s spent the better part of an hour asking him about the stories behind various tattoos and scars, reveling in the cadence of his voice and the heat of his skin. He’s pressed against the length of her back with one arm resting under her neck. She’s holding his other arm in one hand, running her eyes and fingertips over the raised marks that circle his wrist.

 

He’s quiet for so long that she just knows that horrible, empty depth has stolen over his face again, turning his eyes hollow and dark. She tenses, waiting in silent anxiety until finally he releases and long, slow breath against the top of her head and presses just a little closer.

 

“What would ye say if I told ye I was handcuffed t’me own toilet once, an’I couldn’t get at th’key, so I ripped th’damn thing right outta t’floor?”

 

She glances up at Connor’s face, gauging his expression. He seems sincere enough, and his face is free of that grave sadness that still takes him away sometimes, but there are distinct crinkle lines around his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitches just a little.

 

“I’d say you were either full of shit or a few beers short of a six pack,” she says, and he bursts out laughing at her dubious expression. As glad as she is that he’s feeling good enough to laugh, though, she’s worried he might wake someone in the house. She slaps the flat of her hand back against his belly with a resounding thwack, startling an “oof” from him that only briefly interrupts his laughter.

 

“Keep quiet, ya idiot! Ya want us to get caught out here?”

 

Connor makes an admirable effort to control himself, smothering his laugh until he’s run down to chuckles. She returns her attention to her examination of his wrists ( ** _could_** _handcuffs have done that? The toilet part is most definitely bullshit, but those scars_ …), meticulously ignoring him. She’s so absorbed in her inspection that it takes her a moment to notice he’s stopped laughing.

 

She shivers suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck standing up as she feels the force of his gaze, and she swallows audibly.

 

“What?” she asks, deliciously uncomfortable under the steady pressure of his eyes.

 

“Y’really want t’keep me quiet, ‘m sure y’can think of more interestin’ ways t’shut me up den beatin’ on me.”

 

“Still don’t believe ya,” she insists. He twists his arm in her grasp, pressing his fingers down her hand until they’re entwined with her own. He examines their woven fingers seriously for a long, silent moment before leisurely raising her arm and draping it backwards around his neck. His hand alights on her hip, nails scraping harshly as his fingers press into her flesh.

 

“I’ll go t’me grave swearin’ it’s God’s honest truth,” he breathes against her ear. “But let’s talk about somethin’ else fer now, yeah?”

 

Her eyes flutter shut, and any reply she would’ve made is strangled in her suddenly constricted throat. His teeth slide down the rim of her ear, sharp and smooth and just painful enough, and she presses back brazenly against him, her fist twisting into the hair at the back of his neck.

 

His voice is hoarse and a little fractured as he murmurs, “Might wanna hang on a little tighter, Maggie.”

…

 

She’s attached. She won’t lie to herself, not like she did when she was younger. She knows she shouldn’t want him or feel like she needs him so much, but that’s no different than when she was a stupid teenager in the throes of her first real rebelliousness. Nor is it much different that she doesn’t care that she shouldn’t want him so badly. Par for the course with every teenager.

 

What makes this time different is that now ( _when I’m all grown up_ , she thinks ruefully to herself) she knows that he can’t stay. She dreams of forever, but only when she’s asleep. He’s a convict ( _a dangerous one_ , her traitorous brain mutters), and someone somewhere is looking for him. She’s mature enough to admit to herself that sometime in the very near future he’s going to have to leave. She doesn’t know when that should be or where he should go, but when it happens she’ll probably never see him again.

 

Every time she remembers this, she shatters just a little more, has to hold him that much tighter to keep from fragmenting. She thinks he knows, because he doesn’t ever say anything when she does this; he just holds her right back.

…

 

“It’s Christmas in a few days, didn’t know if ya knew,” she says, handing him a Tupperware container. She seats herself next to him on a saddle pad, setting down the thermos of coffee between them.

 

“Ya been good dis year?” he asks, pulling the lid off and grinning at her. “Santa gonna visit ye an’ all dat?”

 

She offers a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, studying his face quietly. He smiles more now than he did even a week ago, but she thinks she doesn’t know him well enough to tell if he means it or not. Mostly, she thinks he does, but there’s still an edge that doesn’t sit right on his face. This man was made for smiling, not for sorrow, and the heavy load he’s carrying shows in everything he does.

 

“Was thinkin’ ya might like ta come to church on Christmas Eve. We could wait for my family to go, then I could drive ya, drop ya off a little ways away, and you could slip in the back or something.” She’s been thinking this over for a couple of days, trying to think how best to present the offer. She realized this morning that straightforward is probably the best policy with Connor, so she simply lays her idea out and waits for his response.

 

“Ye…Ye’d do that? Fer me? Ye could get caught, get in trouble, an’ I don’t want t’make ye—”

 

“Ya ain’t makin’ me do anything I don’t want to, Connor. It’s an offer. I figured you’d get some good out of it, and I know ya like hymns. Our church isn’t much for preachin’ on Christmas Eve, it’s really more of a concert with food and such after. You probably shouldn’t come to that part, people ‘round here would notice a stranger an’ all, but I can give ya the spare key to my car, and you can wait out there for a while, if you want. Hide in the back seat or something, and I’ll bring ya a plate.”

 

He regards Maggie mutely for a long time, his face a mixture of so many emotions it makes her a little dizzy. She busies herself by pulling out an extra mug for the coffee and pouring each of them a steaming, bitter cup.

 

“You should eat while it’s still hot,” she murmurs, holding out the thermos cap to him. Her cheeks heat as his fingers connect with hers, and she can’t hold his eyes. She doesn’t know why she feels so self-conscious all of a sudden, but she’s starting to wish she hadn’t made her suggestion. In retrospect, she feels like a sixth grader asking a high school senior to church for a date.

 

“I’d love t’go, an’ I can’t tell ye what it means fer ye t’ask me. Thanks, Maggie.”

 

And just like that, the awkwardness is gone. Connor digs into his food, deciding this moment would be the perfect time to mention something ridiculous and intimate and far too accurate about a particular thing she did with her mouth the day before that he wouldn’t mind a repeat performance of. She scolds him to finish the food that her stepmother spent all afternoon slaving over, though she does take a moment to move their coffee cups to the side.

 

Just in case.

…

 

“What was dat look ye gave me jus’ a moment ago?”

 

Her back is to him, so she’s easily able to conceal the expression on her face as she shrugs her t-shirt over her head. She knows exactly what he means, but that doesn’t mean she has to tell him.

 

“When?”

 

There’s a shuffling as he pulls himself up from the pallet and stands behind her. His hand on her waist stills her stiff movements, and she pauses, half dressed and wishing very much that she had better self-control. For more than one reason, at the moment.

 

“When I said yer name at th’end there, jus’ before ye came. Ye looked at me, an’ there was…”

 

Still she doesn’t turn. There’s no point, nothing good could possibly come of this. She needs to leave before she says something she can’t take back.

 

“I should really head back, thought I heard somebody movin’ around a minute ago in the house. Almost got caught sneakin’ back in the other night, ended up tellin’ Annette I went out for a midnight cigarette, and—”

 

“Maggie.”

 

The single word drives an abrupt, undeniable jolt straight into her chest. Her head drops fractionally, her eyes closing, and every particle of air leaves her lungs with a sudden rush. There’s a sharp, sudden ache where she thinks her heart should be, and she’s reminded of just how splintered she thinks she is.

 

And this charming, infuriating, broken man just keeps making it that much worse and that much harder to do what she knows she has to.

 

“Y’alright? Did I say somethin’ or hurt ye?”

 

“No,” she whispers. “Ya did everything right, that’s the problem.”

 

“Can ye look at me? ‘Cause I’m lost here, girl, an’ yer gonna hafta help me out a little. What’s got ye so upset?”

 

“You!” she bursts out, turning on him with abrupt intensity. He doesn’t step back, though his eyes widen in shock, and he holds his hands up as if surrendering.

 

“But...ye said that I—”

 

“You didn’t!” Maggie cries. “At least, you didn’t mean to! It’s who you are, everything you say, everything you do, and, Jesus, Connor, why do you have to be so absolutely wrong in every way and still be so goddamn perfect?!”

 

“Maggie, I don’t—”

 

“And I know it sounds stupid,” she continues, talking over him, not even hearing his words as she turns away again, “but that look on my face was…The way ya say my name, it’s like that’s how it’s meant to be said, and I don’t want to hear it any other way from anyone else. And you’re rippin’ things outta me I didn’t know were there in the first damn place.”

 

And just like that, the anger burns out, and she grabs her coat before she can lose her resolve as well. He doesn’t speak as she shrugs it on, and she takes that as a sign that she should go while she still has the willpower. She moves to leave, not even bothering to zip her jacket, when Connor touches her hand, freezing her in midstep.

 

She turns back to him, ready to let loose another tirade when she glances at his face. That’s her first mistake.

 

“I didn’t mean—”

 

“Ye did, and yer right, an’ if ye felt that way, ye should’ve said sooner.”

 

She smiles suddenly, a sense of severe unreality washing over her, and shakes her head. “Sooner? Connor, three weeks. I found ya three weeks ago, to the day. I feel like an idiot for having these thoughts and feelings about you _now_. How do ya think I would’ve felt a week ago? Two weeks? Did ya want me to pull ya from the woods with promises of fairy tales and forever?”

 

It’s only then she realizes he still hasn’t dressed. “You’re gonna catch your death standing around with nothin’ on, Connor; either get under the covers or put some clothes on. I hafta go.”

 

She doesn’t mention how distracting he is when he’s completely naked, of course. Or half clothed. Or completely clothed.

 

Without breaking eye contact, he simply reaches down and grabs a blanket, tossing it absently around his shoulders.

 

“So y’are pissed at me, then? Maggie, I don’t have t’stay around any longer, I know it’s not been easy on ye, an’ ye’ve done more fer me than…than I could ever repay, though I can try if ye want. If y’could jus’ gimme til after Christmas, den I can be on m’way wit’out any problems.”

 

Blind, stupid, perfect idiot.

 

She knows she should just leave, let him think the worst, maybe even convince him to go now instead of three days from now, but she can’t stand that suggestion of something she hears in his voice, and his shoulders are sagging, and the laughter that’s been slowly building alongside the sorrow on his face is trickling away, and…dammit.

 

So she decides to stay. That’s her second mistake in as many minutes.

 

She takes his face in both her hands, closing the distance between them, and he enfolds them in his blanket.

 

“I don’t want ya t’go after Christmas,” she murmurs against his lips as his arms wrap around her waist. “I don’t want ya t’go at all, that’s the problem. I don’t want to let ya go, and I know I have to, and I know I probably won’t ever see you again. And the whole time I’m askin’ myself why, why the hell do I have to care so much, and it’s all. Your. Damn. Fault.”

 

She still can’t look at him, even as she punctuates her last words with kisses, and their foreheads press together, their breathing syncs, and the sounds of the night filter in around them. For once he doesn’t say anything, and damn him, that’s perfect, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, The Black Crowes’ song “She Talks to Angels” and The Birthday Massacre’s album Hide and Seek were on repeat as I wrote and rewrote this chapter. I’ve got the rest of the story mapped out, and I’m going to see how much of it I can get written in the next couple of weeks to get it done. What I need from you guys is this: I have then epilogue written in my head two different ways. I know that I should end it how I feel best. At the same time, I’m writing this for you guys. What would you like to see? Bitter or sweet? If you liked what you read, please take a moment to leave a comment or review. Thanks for reading.


	6. Chapter 6

" _Life will not break your heart. It'll crush it."_

_Henry Rollins_

…

_Well we busted out of class,_

_Had to get away from those fools._

_We learned more from a three-minute record,_

_Baby, than we ever learned in school._

_Tonight I hear the neighborhood drummer sound;_

_I can feel my heart begin to pound._

_You say you're tired and you just wanna close your eyes_

_And follow your dreams down._

_Well we made a promise: we swore we'd always remember._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender,_

_Like soldiers in the winter's night with a vow to defend._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender._

_Well, now, young faces grow sad and old,_

_And hearts of fire grow cold._

_We swore blood brothers against the wind._

_I'm ready to grow young again,_

_And hear your sister's voice calling us home_

_Across the open yards._

_Well, maybe we could cut someplace of our own_

_With these drums and these guitars,_

_'Cause we made a promise: we swore we'd always remember._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender,_

_Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender._

_Now on the street tonight the lights grow dim._

_The walls of my room are closing in._

_There's a war outside still raging._

_You say it ain't ours anymore to win._

_I wanna sleep beneath peaceful skies in my lover's bed_

_With a wide open country in my eyes_

_And these romantic dreams in my head._

_Because we made a promise: we swore we'd always remember._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender,_

_Blood brothers in the stormy night with a vow to defend._

_No retreat, baby, no surrender._

_Bruce Springsteen, "No Surrender"_

…

" _What I never did is done."_

_The Band Perry, "If I Die Young"_

…

Days 22-23:

Christmas Eve day is much more relaxed in the Green house than Maggie is used to. For once, all the decorations are up, the presents are wrapped, and no one's forgotten to buy gifts for anyone (as far as they know).

Beth hasn't stopped singing since she woke up, and Maggie warns her that she won't have any voice left tonight if she keeps that up. Beth doesn't answer, simply grins and dances away as she starts in on "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree."

Maggie follows her youngest sibling with her eyes, wondering when exactly it was that Beth changed so much. Not matured ( _definitely_ not that), but suddenly she's not the tiny, impish toddler or quiet but giggly middle-schooler that Maggie's grown so used to. Of course, Beth isn't anywhere near tall or even grown-looking (and probably never will be), but Maggie is used to her sister doing her dancing in a fairy princess costume. And she's sure not used to her sister being closer to high school graduation than to preschool finger painting.

She thinks for a moment that her presents (bangle bracelets, matching earrings, and a frilly, sparkly scarf) might be a little juvenile. Then Maggie blinks as Beth's feet fly suddenly past her face, and her little sister cartwheels past, bellowing "Jingle Bells" at the top of her lungs.

She of course immediately crashes into the refrigerator with a resounding _thud_ that causes every piece of glass in the room to tinkle ominously. Beth is reduced to a helpless, giggling heap as Annette scolds her, threatening the hyperactive teenager with every chore the farm has ever known. Maggie decides her presents should be just fine.

Maggie spends most of the day in a mixed haze of Christmas cheer and twinges of guilt. She should want to have this time with her family before she goes back to school, should want to spend the day with them, and she does. She really does.

But there's also the part of her that feels like a selfish, spoiled child for every moment she leaves Connor alone in the barn. She tries to console this part of herself by reasoning that it's not much more time than she usually leaves him alone during the day.

Unfortunately, this part of her is also the stubborn part, so it isn't listening to reason at the moment.

She catches herself wondering what he's thinking after her outburst yesterday. When Annette asks her to peel sweet potatoes, she convinces herself they could figure something out so he could maybe at least visit her at school, even if he couldn't' come with her. She has weekends and breaks, after all.

As she arranges the peeled potatoes on a baking sheet and slides them into the oven, she reminds herself that he will probably be on the run for the rest of his life, however long or short that might be.

When she helps her daddy sneak in an awkward, extra-long box in horribly garish wrapping covered in fat, feathered babies that in no way resemble any creature of the heavenly host, she briefly fantasizes about going on the run with him. She doesn't seriously entertain the idea, but for a few minutes she allows herself to think it might not be too terrible to lay down next to Connor every night, even if they would probably be spending nine out of ten of those nights straight on the ground with only each other for warmth.

Maybe they could head somewhere up to Montana or Canada where there wouldn't be so many eyes and ears around. Build a little cabin, clear some land, and…

And what? Play house?

She shakes her head and tucks the box (almost a crate, really) in the back of the closet, arranging coats and sweaters until the package is out of sight.

After dinner, she manages a passable "I need some space after such a family-oriented day like this" performance and announces she's going for a walk in the woods to clear her head.

"I'll be back in plenty of time to meet y'all at church," she promises. Annette simply shrugs and defers to Herschel, who says it should be fine as long as she's not late.

She can see Beth trying to catch her eye, probably hoping to ride with her instead of the rest of the family. Normally, Maggie wouldn't hesitate to just invite Beth, taking her along on her walk, maybe even letting her sneak a drag on her cigarette. If this had been a normal winter break, she'd have done so already, and God help the two of them if Annette ever finds out that Maggie has been doing that for years.

But Maggie already has a passenger tonight.

She avoids Beth's hurt gaze, barely keeping her head from hanging guiltily. She just hopes she'll find a way to make it up to her before she has to go back to school. Beth may look sweet, but she can hold a grudge like nobody's business.

Maggie really does go for a walk by herself this time, that part wasn't a lie. It's the first solitary walk she's been on since she found Connor in the woods. She's taken him on a few midnight walks, trying to help him recuperate some of his strength, and even though she always enjoys the time spent with him, she needs a little time on her own just to breathe.

Plus, it's much easier to wallow in her thoughts when there's no one else around.

But she's been through these thoughts before, been over and over them to the point where she has the pattern memorized, and nothing new ever comes from it.

Obviously, he can't stay much longer. Aside from the eventual return of their horses and thus the renewed need to use the barn, Maggie has to return to school in nine days, which would put a bit of a damper on Connor's food supply, if nothing else. It's not like she can just pass his care off to Beth as if he were a family pet or something.

She can't just send him off into the world with a handshake, a smile, and a "Thanks for the roll in the hay, have a great life!" He didn't seem to fair too well the last time he was on his own, and her stomach clenches every time she thinks about the way he looked slumped at the base of that tree. What if he ends up in some other woods without someone to help him next time? But what the hell is she supposed to do with him?

What the hell is she supposed to do without him?

After thirty minutes of fruitless wandering, she decides that she's not going to figure anything out on her own, and she's really only just got enough time to make it back to the house, change, and collect Connor before they have to leave. Plus, she's got a small surprise for him that she'd like to give him before they go.

…

"What's dis?" he asks, eyeing the paper shopping bag in her hands.

"Well, I figured ya wouldn't stand out as much in some newer clothes. Plus, ya might need 'em when…when ya finally have to go, so I figured they'd do ya some good. I'll leave ya to get dressed and meet ya by my car in fifteen minutes, okay?"

…

"Wow…You, uh…ya look…nice."

"Ye did pick th'clothes out fer me," he points out, half a smile tilting the corner of his mouth.

"Wasn't sure ya'd like 'em or if they'd even fit," she admits quietly, admiring how well the jeans sit on his hips. The black sweater is a little baggy over the t-shirt, but the look suits him in a way she hadn't expected.

"Eyes are up here, Maggie," he says softly, tilting her chin up with a finger. "Ye want me t'turn so y'can get th'back view, as well?"

She grins, flicking his hand away, and unlocks his door. "We need to leave so you'll have enough time to walk the last half mile or so."

She knows he's going to do it, so it's no surprise when he catches her hand, spinning her around and pinning her back to the car.

"Ye look lovely," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of her mouth. Maggie allows for ten glorious seconds of his attention and wandering hands before she forces herself to return to reality. This is not a date, he is not her boyfriend, and they aren't going for a lovely little drive before joining the family in their usual spot at church.

"C'mon, Prison Man," she says, hoping her old name for him will cement reality more firmly in her mind. "Let's get goin'."

…

She keeps a covert eye on the door, watching for Connor's entrance, which he discreetly makes just before the pastor begins his welcome speech. He can't avoid the ushers at the door, offering him a program and showing him a seat, but he does seem to manage to deflect any personal questions anyone might be directing at him. She grins and turns away, knowing he must have really turned on the charm when Mrs. Beasley, known for her crotchety temper and sharper tongue, giggles like a school girl and pats him on the cheek before returning to her post at the door.

The Christmas Eve service has always been Maggie's favorite. A small talk that can't even be properly called a sermon, some greeting and handshaking and hugging the rest of the people, some Maggie hasn't seen in months, and then the singing. Lots of singing.

Beth, of course, is in her element, and not even Maggie can surpass her little sister here. She knows there are people who still come up to her sister after every Sunday service and ask her why she isn't in the choir. They used to ask Maggie the same thing, though not with the frequency they ask Beth. Maggie's never been sure why Beth doesn't join the choir, but as she glances at her family out of the corner of her eye, hands joined and arms slung over shoulders, she thinks that maybe it's because singing's better when there's someone to appreciate it up close and personal, not standing in formation with uniforms on.

She thinks of Connor and his own brand of up close and personal appreciation then, her face heating, and forces herself not to look at him.

They sing their way through the usual Christmas songs, and she notices the church has loosened up just enough to add a couple of carols this year instead of their typical roster of strictly hymns. Still, she's more than a little surprised when an older lady from the choir steps forward after the last notes of "Silent Night" fade. Maggie realizes that this elderly woman is Mrs. Addison who lives about four miles down the road from the Green farm and used to teach Maggie preschool. She doesn't remember her former teacher looking quite so worn or old before now.

"This year, so many members of our congregation returned home, whether from college or overseas or from wherever they scatter to during the year, and for that we are truly grateful. We knew in advance, though, that a lot of our people wouldn't be able to make it home this year, whether because they have other obligations or they're still serving or because they fulfilled their service to their people and country and went on to wait for the rest of us."

Mrs. Addison pauses, clearing her throat and dabbing at her eye with a corner of her choir robe. Maggie abruptly remembers that Jake Addison, an only child to older parents and just a couple of years ahead of her in school, went straight into the Marines after graduation and has been serving ever since. His parents would often talk about him at church gatherings, how well he did in training and how proud they were of him.

Mrs. Addison struggle to regain her composure, duty winning out over grief.

"So…the congregation decided to do a something a little different this year, and we took a poll to find out what song everyone would like to be our last song of the evening this year. We're going to record it and email it to some of the soldiers overseas so they know we're thinking of them. If we can get it in one take, we'll even be able to get it to them tonight, although it's already Christmas Day for them."

The piano and guitar players ready themselves, and Maggie recognizes the first few notes of one of her daddy's favorite Christmas songs. It's slow and sad, and everyone in the congregation falls silent as the choir begins.

" _I'll be home for Christmas._

_You can plan on me._

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents on the tree._

_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the lovelight gleams._

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_If only in my dreams."_

…

After the last song ends, there's more hugging and greeting of people who arrived late, though most of it is done on the way to the potluck in the fellowship hall. Maggie hasn't checked on Connor for pretty much the entire service, not wanting to draw attention to him, and when she looks back, he's bent over, face buried in his hands. For once, the older women of the church deem it wise to leave this stranger to his own business, murmuring vaguely soothing words of generic comfort before filing off towards the gathering.

Maggie throws caution to the wind and starts towards Connor, murmuring something about seeing if "that man" needs anything and meeting the family in the fellowship hall in a few minutes.

Annette glances over at Connor, who has only moved to briefly thank the well-meaning congregants, and then she glances back at Maggie. She opens her mouth to say something then changes her mind. She seems to be having a bit of an internal struggle before she finally catches Maggie by the arm, pulling her off to the side, and says, "I don't know what's goin' on with ya since ya got home from school, Maggie, and I don't need to know unless ya want to tell me or you're in trouble. Otherwise, I just want ya to know I'm here if you need to talk, and that I want ya to look after yourself."

Maggie is taken aback, rendered quite speechless by this sudden confidence, and she can only gape at her stepmother. So much for trying to keep secrets in her family.

"Don't look at me so shocked, I've been your mother for plenty long enough to know when something's going on with ya. And before ya ask, no, I don't know what it is, and no, your daddy has no idea. But your sister misses you, and ya know I'm worried, so just…be careful, Maggie?"

Maggie nods, remembering at the last second to add a proper, "Yes, ma'am." Annette gazes steadily at Maggie, searching her face for a long moment before managing a small smile. She kisses Maggie's cheek before turning and herding the rest of the Greens towards the waiting buffet.

Maggie lowers herself to the pew beside Connor, wondering if she should say anything. He's obviously not alright, so there's no point in asking him. She briefly considers hugging him, but that would look way out of line if anyone were to suddenly rush back in for a forgotten scarf or purse.

"Do ya want to talk about it now?" she finally asks. "I don't want to push, but most times a sore can't get better until you pull out the thorn or let out the infection."

He sniffs loudly, startled by her words as if he hadn't realized she was there, and scrubs at his face with both hands. She can see the dampness on his cheeks and the redness of his eyes, but she comments on neither.

"I…I know yer right," he finally admits. The sound echoes around the quiet, empty room, reminding Maggie of the first night he spent in the barn when the wind just couldn't be still. "Yeah, I'm…gonna talk t'ye about it. Y'should join yer family, though, it's Christmas Eve an' all. They'll be missin' ye, an' it's where ya belong."

"I belong where I'm needed," she reproaches him gently. "If ya need to talk, I can sit with ya."

"I need a little while t'meself. Gimme…I'm gonna sit here for a bit, an' den I'll be at dat diner where ye dropped me off earlier when ye pass by again. An hour, maybe?"

"I'll pick you up in an hour, then."

…

The drive home is silent. There's tension, but, then, Maggie knew there would have to be. She stares straight ahead, not asking questions, knowing that of all the times she's never pushed him, this might be the most important one. There's more than just a _sense_ of foreboding about the imminent conversation; it's practically pouring from the rigidity of his posture, the deep lines on his face, the very weight of his silence.

She stops part way down the drive, unlocking the door for him.

"I'll meet ya in the barn in a few minutes, bring ya some supper," she says quietly. There's no danger of being overheard by her family or anyone, but there's a feeling of solemnity just now, like how people rarely speak above murmurs and whispers at a wake.

He nods, slides wordlessly from the car, and disappears into the woods.

…

"I'm gonna tell ye 's'much as I can, Maggie, but I just can't…go t'roo everyt'ing t'night, so…lemme just start at th'prison."

She nods, settling next to him on his bed. They both lean against the wall, legs stretched out in front, staring sightlessly at the other side of the stall. The plate of food she brought him grows cold on an overturned bucket that's been serving him as a table, but most of it is finger food that will keep in the cold night air.

"Twas me an' me brudder Murphy, locked up at th'Hoag, a max security prison up in Massachusetts. Near all of th'convicts in wit' us were wantin' our heads on account o'why we were locked up. Just survivin' day t'day was tryin' enough; knew we couldn't last out more den a few months. Had some high up friends on th'outside t'help us work out a plan, so we didn't figure as we'd be in much longer den a few weeks, just enough t'work everyt'in' out. An' as I was always th'one with th'plans, I t'ought everyone was lookin' t'me t'get th'plan up an' runnin'."

He continues to talk, his words coming slow and thick and repetitive like a man in a dream. The story he tells her is straight out of an old seventies action movie, all about covert plans and secret deals and guards who were "in on th'whole t'ing." She'd love to believe it's all some fabulous tale meant to impress her somehow, but all she has to do is glance at him to know this is one of the few things he'd never lie or tease about.

He's got the second rosary clutched securely in one hand, passing his other fingers over and over the beads absently, probably with no clue that his hand is even moving.

"Dey let me make dis whole stupid-ass plan up, knowin' what I was like. An' I…I always made th'plans, Maggie, an'dey always worked out b'fore, somehow. Dunno how, somethin' always went wrong, but in th'end, me plans almost always worked, so…I…I just…Wish t'God Almighty I'd just admitted I didn't have a fuckin' clue what I was doin'. Dis plan was over my head, I was outta my depth, however ye spin it, but I wanted to…I should've—"

He cuts off abruptly, his breath coming harshly through his nose. His face is paler than Maggie's ever seen it, and she starts to say something, anything at all to comfort him, but right now there just aren't words. The sounds of the night filter in: the wind crackling through frozen tree branches, muffled music and laughter from the house, Connor's frenetic breathing, and Maggie's drumming heartbeat.

Finally Connor turns to her, his eyes shredded with hurt and guilt. "Ye don't understand, I can't think how t'make ye, but I coulda stopped th'whole thing, could admitted I was scared shiteless with no idea what I was doin'. I coulda let our people plan everythin', an' I swear t'God Murph would still be wit' me. I t'ought I could handle it all, but I knew better, I just wanted t'fuckin' prove Murph wrong again, so I kept on, an' I didn't listen, even though th'whole time somethin' inside me was screamin' I was wrong."

She reaches for his hand that isn't clutching the rosary in a death grip and gently clasps his fingers between hers, relieved when he doesn't pull away. Then again, she's not sure he's even aware that she's here right now.

"Took near a month of plannin', but it all seemed t'come t'gether at once. We had a friend wit'us when we were brought in, see, he was hurt a lot worse than either of us. So our higher up connections got permission to get him transferred to a lower security medical lock-up. Figured his transfer would be a great opportunity fer him t'get 'lost in the system' on th'way, an'me an'Murph could disappear in th'confusion. We made it, too, we were fuckin' out! Tasted th'fuckin' freedom, all dat clichéd bullshit! But…I didn't push us hard enough, we didn't…we could've…"

He chokes on his words, the rosary dangling from his hand as he grips his forehead tightly. Though he's talking again before Maggie can react, the jumbled torrent of his words rushes out in a brogue so thick she can only catch every few words.

And the story she pieces together is just as devastating as she knew it would be.

Somewhere between the prison and the appointed meet up location where they would find their friends, someone alerted the wrong people of their absence, and those wrong people came after Connor and Murphy far sooner than the plan allowed. While search teams were immediately sent out, the prison didn't bother with the dramatics of search lights and sirens, not wanting to alert the escaped brothers that anyone was on to their plan.

" 'Fore we knew it, dey caught up t'us 'bout an hour from th'place where our people were waitin'," Connor says, his tone finally leveling out. "I never even saw th'searchers, but Murph an'I sure as hell knew th'sound o'gunfire when it started up around us. Runnin' through strange woods, Murph wheezin' away next t'me, neither of us fully recovered from what got us caught in th'first place. Guns crackin' from behind us th'whole time, bullets near explodin' in th'trees everywhere…"

He's lost in the story, hardly even pausing to breathe.

Outta nowhere, Murph grabs me, knocks us both t'th'ground. No warning', just rolls us under dese bushes an' covers us up, claps his hand over me mouth like I'm th'one gonna cry an' give us away. We hear people crashin' all around us, but thank Jesus dey don't bring dogs. So we wait, an' we wait. Figured t'was only a matter of time til we were caught, but dey never did find us. An' th'whole time we neither of us say a word fer fear of bein' overheard, but Murph coulda…he coulda done somethin', let me know somehow, so I could've…Th'whole time we laid dere under dat fuckin' bush…"

Maggie opens her mouth to ask, but stops. She can't say it out loud, can't interrupt him.

"Fuckin' bastard lay dere fer tree fuckin' hours bleedin' out, an' not a word nor a hint. Not one fuckin' clue from him, Maggie, an'I didn't even know me brudder was dyin right next t'me. If he'd said somethin', we'd've been caught, sure, but he'd be alive, he'd…he'd…he'd"

The words come fast and ragged until he chokes on them again, cutting himself off forcefully until he can breathe again without gasping.

"He…Murphy wasn't s'posed t'take dat shot. T'was meant fer me, an' I knew it was comin'…just…didn't know t'would happen when it did."

"Ya can't say that, Connor, ya don't know it was supposed to be—"

"I did, Maggie. Fuckin' knew it was my time," he says. His voice is flat, completely toneless in a way that scares her more than anything she's seen or heard so far. "I'd been dreamin' fer weeks dat dis was gonna be th'last thing fer me. Ignored 'em, hoped it was nerves leftover from when our Da died. Thought maybe I was just off m'game an'. Not as young as I used t'be. Supposed as long as we stuck t'th'plan, t'ings would work out like dey almost always had b'fore."

Maggie stares at him, unable to come up with anything like comfort. She realizes in a sudden burst of clarity that she will probably never be able to understand what he's feeling in this moment, will never know what it feels like to go through something so epically heartrending and come out alive on the other side. He lowers his hand from his face at last, turning to her, his mouth trembling and his eyes haunted and bloodshot.

"More times den I c'n count, tis my fault, Maggie. I dragged him int'th'whole mess in th'first place. I coulda called off th'plan, coulda told him about th'dreams. Me own brudder bleedin' t'death next t'me fer hours an' it never even occurred t'me t'check on him, 'cause I was so damn relieved we weren't caught. I…didn't…"

He detaches from the sentence the way he detaches from reality sometimes, simply drifts into nothingness.

They sit for hours in the winter night, surrounding by his words. Maggie clutches his hand, refusing to think of anything beyond what he's told her. She doesn't pry, doesn't ask questions. Right now, she doesn't need to know anything but what he's told her. Sometimes one person's pain in the present can eclipse whatever else has come before. Can't change the past no matter how much you're grieving in the present.

She stays in the barn far longer than she should, listening to the sounds of her family slowly fade into the night. The wind dies, her heartbeat slows enough to be inaudible once again, and then there is silence.

Maggie stays until he falls asleep, slumped against the wall and clutching her hand with the same intensity he still clutches what she knows now is his brother Murphy's rosary. With as much gentleness as she can muster, she pries loose her fingers and flexes the numb digits before reaching down to retrieve his blanket.

It's after midnight now, Christmas day, as she tucks in her sleeping fugitive. She kisses him on the forehead, lingering, but she tonight she can't stay. She whispers a brief Lord's Prayer over Connor's sleeping form, meaning the words like she hasn't since she was little, and stands.

He stirs then, peering hazily up at her, and she tries and fails to offer him a smile.

"I want to say with ya, but I gotta wake up with the family. I'm sorry. I know it's not worth much, but Merry Christmas, Connor."

He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge her words, and she's pretty sure he hasn't even heard them. He might not even know she's there anymore. She finds she can't let out the breath she's holding, so she turns and walks towards the door, hoping the knot in her chest will untangle before her lungs burst.

Behind her, she hears a quiet sob, and she stops. She should go back, surely she can stay a while longer. She just needs to be back in the house before everyone wakes up, that's all…

…

It takes another hour for him to fall fully asleep in her arms. As he drifts off, he murmurs, "Twas me…I killed him. Don't matter who pulled th'trigger, t'was me dat put him in th'way of th'bullet. Killed me own brudder. I can't…"

Even if he weren't asleep, Maggie has no words of comfort or solace or even negation. Because, as much as she hates and wants to deny anything that would cause Connor this much anguish, in every way that matters to him, he's right.


	7. Chapter 7

" _My babe._  
I'm gonna leave you, go away...  
... Oh I miss you, baby.

_It was really, really good._   
_You made me happy every single day._   
_But now... I've got to go away!"_

_Led Zeppelin, "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You"_

…

" _I find it ironic that happy endings now are called fairytale endings because there's nothing happy about most fairytale endings."_

_Joe Wright_

…

In the days leading from Christmas to New Year's Eve, Connor eats little and speaks less. Instead of the charming yet mysterious Irishman that's slowly been emerging over the last few weeks, this Connor turns inward with his thoughts once more, only asking Maggie for an occasional hymn. As for physical comfort, he no longer initiates anything sexual, preferring to simply hold Maggie for as long as she's willing or able to stay. While she's surprised, Maggie understands the changes and the clinginess; Connor lost the person who mattered more than anything, and now that he's admitted the loss, he needs something tangible to hold on to.

She can be his anchor, if that's what he needs right now.

Since he's not talking, Maggie sings a bit, which seems to calm him, and she talks a bit, though she's not sure of his reaction. It's not a subject she wants to broach, but as it's nearly New Year's and Maggie will be back at school in less than a week, she figures Connor needs to start thinking about where he's going to go and how he's going to get there. So she mentions some ideas she's had, none of them very good, but they're all she's been able to think of. He takes her suggestions with a stoic nod, saying he'll definitely think them over.

On the night before New Year's Eve, Connor asks Maggie if she can come out to the barn the next night and stay for a while.

"Know ye wanna spend time wit' yer family, but maybe after dat ye could come out an' we could talk some, an'...an' plan." It's the most words he's strung together at a time since Christmas Eve, so of course she agrees.

She was planning to, anyway.

Maggie spends New Year's Eve with her family, doing all the goofy, embarrassing little rituals most families tend to develop over a lifetime together. Popcorn and sparkling cider for everyone. No champagne for the Greens: no sense tempting Herschel, Annette always says. While he grumbles and makes faces at Annette every time, Maggie knows her dad deeply appreciates his wife's vigilance.

Maggie surprises herself by offering to take Beth on a road trip over their spring breaks and is rewarded by a squealing Beth tackling her in thanks, nearly cracking Maggie's ribs in the process.

As the ball drops over New York City and Maggie's family cheers and laughs around her, making plans for the coming year, a strange melancholy settles over her even as she laughs along with them. She's always thought resolutions were pointless; if she wanted to change so much about herself, she'd need a hell of a lot more motivation than a new calendar.

But something about this year seems a lot more final, like this is her chance to make one more lasting change before... _before what?_ she wonders.

She has no idea.

She turns to Annett suddenly and murmurs, "I'm gonna stop spending so much time alone in the woods after this week. Gonna need your help with that."

Annette smiles warmly, if knowingly, and pulls Maggie in for a tight hug without a word.

An hour later, Maggie makes her way slowly out to the barn. The melancholy hasn't lifted, but the focus has narrowed from general events and life on the whole to one very specific person. And Maggie feels like she might be sick if she takes one more step towards the barn.

"It's not like it's the end of the world,"she scolds herself, forcing her feet to move. "He ain't dyin'."

 _But he might as well be_ , her traitorous thoughts whisper. _He's leaving, and he ain't coming back._

"Maggie, is dat you?"

 _Why does he ask?_ she wonders.

"If it ain't, we're both in a helluva lot of trouble."

He's smiling faintly when she enters the stall. There's so much she wants to say as she walks in, but now that she's face to face with him again, the words evaporate in her abruptly arid mouth.

Looking at Connor, you'd almost not know she found him a little over three weeks ago, starving and freezing to death. His cheeks are still a bit hollow, his frame more gaunt than it should be. His skin is roughened, but no worse than a lot of the farm hands Maggie has known through the years. There are still dark smudges under his eyes, but she has a feeling this man will never get enough sleep again, and that look in his eyes, that haunted, wretched turbulence…

She's pretty sure his eyes will never be calm again.

"Got a lot t'tell ye, if yer willin' t'listen'," he says, holding a hand out in invitation. She silently accepts and settles in at his feet, thinking she's ready to hear anything he wants to tell her.

At age twenty-two, Maggie discovers that she does not know everything. She is, in fact, still hopelessly naive and wholly capable of being shocked to her core. And she's ninety-nine percent sure he's telling her the complete truth, regardless of how closely his story resembles a truly terrible action movie.

"Yer not runnin' an' fetchin' th'shot gun or th'sheriff...should I take dat as a good sign?" Connor asks after a full five minutes of silence.

"I probably should," she murmurs, her brain still attempting to digest this new information. "Got an escaped convict in my barn who killed God know how many people, and-"

"Men, Maggie. Evil men. Men who killed or raped or hurt hundreds of ot'er people, me da an' best friend included. Ye may not b'lieve me, but dey were evil men, every one of'em."

She nods slowly. She does believe him, much to her surprise. She doesn't want to; she wants to hold on to her own version of reality where vigilante Irishmen don't collapse in her woods and make her feel obliged to take care of them and nurse them back to health and bond with them and fall in…

Fall for them.

"So, what's the plan?" she asks suddenly. Better to change the subject now than go down that road four days before he's about to disappear from her life.

Connor begins to outline what promises to be a ludicrously complicated plan involving sneaking around town in the middle of the night, hiding from security cameras, and various other covert actions. Maggie gently lays the tips of her fingers across his lips, stopping him in mid sentence.

"So you you're tryin' to say there's a number you're supposed to call."

He nods, his eyes confused but not displeased by her fingers' continued presence on his mouth.

"Give me the number. I'll buy a disposable cell phone and call for you. I'll ask them which bus to put you on on Tuesday morning." She can see him working through a lot of different emotions at her words, all of them too fast for her to completely catch, but she can imagine most of them. He finally nods, and she pulls her hand back, only to have it caught by Connor.

"Can't tell ye how grateful I am dat ye found me, Maggie. I'd given up on...on pretty much everyt'in', but I can at least make it back t'me friends, check on'em an' all. Fer what it's wort' comin' from me, t'anks. Fer everyt'in'."

Maggie nods, feeling the melancholy creeping back in from where it's been hiding. Not the words she was quite hoping to hear, but she won't admit those words to even herself, so why should he say them out loud?

"Maggie, I...want t'tell ye...there's summat I want t'say, but I jus'...can't bring meself to admit it outloud."

She eyes him suspiciously, wondering if he's somehow found a way into her head. "Yeah?"

He sighs, running his fingers through his hair distractedly, as if he can pull the answers from his scalp. "I've known ye fer jus' a few weeks, but...I… Care for ye. More dan I c'n put inta words jus' now. If I ever see ye again after dis...I'll have some more words t'say on th'matter, but knowin' I'm leavin' ye in a few days, I jus'...I can't say it an' den leave ye. Ain't right."

His face is so stubbornly set, as if she's going to beg or torture him until he gives in, that she forgets her own misery for a second and actually laughs out loud at his dogged expression.

"Ain't askin' ya for a ring, prison man," she says, resting her hand on his cheek. He sighs, his shoulders sagging, and finally gives in to a small chuckle. "This ain't a movie," she continues. "We don't get a happy endin' just because we think we should. But I'll make damn sure you get back to your friends."

Then Connor's hands find Maggie's face, he's pulling her in close, and there's no more conversation, melancholy or otherwise, between them for the rest of the night.

The phone call Maggie makes the next day is, hands down, the strangest of her life.

"How did you get this number?" A nasal, croaking voice snaps on the other end.

"Friend gave it to me," she snaps back, wondering if she's got the right number. Connor wrote it down, but he's got pisspoor handwriting, so she could've misread it.

"You've got five seconds to tell me what friend, or-"

"He said t'tell ya he was awful sorry to hear of yer passin' an' he would've attended the funeral if he hand't been out of the country at the time." Maggie didn't ask when Connor gave her this information; she's beyond disbelief at this point and pretty much just goes with it.

Silence on the other end for long enough that Maggie wonders if the line's been disconnected, then-

"I'm listening," the voice says in a much more reasonable tone.

"He wants to know what bus I should put him on leaving the Sharpsburg, Georgia bus station on Tuesday morning."

"Just a second."

There's muffled conversation, and Maggie hears the clicking of a keyboard. After a brief interlude, the man returns and says, "The number fifteen that leaves at ten-thirty. Tell him someone will meet him in the cafe of that bus's final stop. And…"

There's another long silence, one she'd hazard to call hesitant, then, "Which one are you sending me?" The voice sounds sincerely regretful, as if he really doesn't want to know which brother won't be coming back.

"The planner," Maggie replies. "And I really wouldn't talk about it, if you can avoid it."

"No," the man sighs. She'd been afraid, from the sass he answered the phone with, that the man would snap at her for saying such a thing, but he just sounds tired and sad. "No, you're right. Thank you."

"One more thing, and I'll let you go," Maggie interjects before the man can hang up. "He wanted to know about his friend, the hurt one."

There's a scuffle on the other end of the phone, then a new voice comes on, this one with a bit of an accent. "Tell him it takes more than twenty bullets and losing half my blood to get me down. I'm fine, and he needs to get his bitch ass here before Betty Boop and Agent Undead drive me batshit."

"Miss, whoever you are, thank you for helping our friend. Burn the phone you're using until the whole thing is ashes, alright?" The first man advices before the line goes dead.

"Huh," Maggie says, holding the silent cell in her lap. "Well, alright, then."

Beyond disbelieving.

Tuesday morning sees Maggie loading up her car with Connor's help. Annette is out running errands, Herschel is already at work, and Beth and Shawn left for school an hour or so before. Connor hefts the last suitcase into the trunk before slamming it shut. He grabs the small duffel stuffed with new clothes and some personal items Maggie insisted he accept, tosses it into the back seat, and turns to look at Maggie across the roof of the car. He's wearing the jeans and sweater she gave him for Christmas, as well as a jacket she found at the second hand store in town, and she takes a long moment to simply soak in the sight of him in daylight.

He wasn't made for skulking around at night. The sunlight suits him.

"Should prob'ly say goodbye."

"Huh?" So now she's regressed to the tongue-tied schoolgirl again. Wonderful.

"Wouldn't be t'smartest t'ing t'say goodbye properlike in front of th'people at th'bus station. Might be someone dere ye know."

"Oh...oh, right." Luckily, he's already making his way around to her side of the car, so she doesn't have to trust her traitorous body to make it the few feet without stumbling. Her arms come up automatically as Connor's arms envelope her, and she buries her face in his shoulder.

The urge to cry does not come as she thought it would, even as he slides his fingers slowly through her hair.

"I'll see ye again," he murmurs. She doesn't know if he's lying to her, to himself, or both, but she appreciates his words all the same. "I'll see ye again, an' I'll have so much t'say t'ye den. Want ye t'know I mean all of it now, but I can't yet..."

She silences him with a long, lingering kiss; it's their last, and she doesn't want it to end, but eventually the bus will leave, and he needs to be on it. He nods as they separate, knowing she means the words, too.

"Ye ain't broken, Maggie, not in th'ways dat matter. Ye ready?"

"Never," she sighs, sliding into the driver's seat. He slides into the passenger seat, shutting the door and turning to watch her busy herself with her pre-driving ritual, adjusting mirrors, buckling her seatbelt, cranking the car. Fiddling with the air and the radio until finally shutting both off.

Anything to steal a few more moments.

"Could run away t'Canada an'build a cabin in t'woods, yeah? Farm an' hunt an' shit?"

She lets out a sharp laugh, her hands gripping the steering wheel desperately. "This is so unreal," she says, her eyes fixated on some vague point in the distance. "This whole...situation is so...screwed up, makes absolutely no sense. I just...don't...I don't understand...how…"

Connor pries her fingers from the steering wheel, turning Maggie to face him and folding her once more into his arms.

"Ye don't have t'understand, Maggie. Ye don't even have t'accept it right now, ye just...have t'learn t'breathe until th'bad moments pass so ye c'n make it t'th'next good ones. Just...breathe in, Maggie. Then let it out."

"But-"

"We'll get dere, Maggie. I'll see ye again. Don't ask me how I know, just accept it an' remember t'breathe until den."

It takes a couple of minutes, but she gets herself under enough control to drive him to the station just in time to catch the right bus.

"Ya've got everything?" She doesn't know what else to say. He insisted she stay in the car in case anyone she knows is at the station, and she feels awkward and a little helpless clutching at the wheel while he retrieves his bag from the backseat. He steps lightly around the car, slinging the bag over his shoulder, and she can't help but marvel at the careless grace that comes so naturally to him.

Connor drapes his left arm over the roof of the car, leaning down until his face is close to hers.

"Won't ask ye t'wait fer me, Maggie. Dunno when I'll make it back. I will, however, warn ye dat any man yer wit' when I find ye again will be subject t'rigorous competition, against which he will surely fail, considering I'll do anyt'in' necessary t'once again secure yer affections."

She grins, bumping her forehead against his. "Caveman."

"Dat's Prison Man t'ye, missy." He slides down an inch, catches her lips in a brief kiss, then straightens and walks away before either of them can falter.

She sits in her car in the parking lot long after his bus leaves. She thought for a few brief moments of insanity that she might follow the bus, just go with him wherever he ended up, but that would never work, and she knows it. He promised to come back someday. Since she's still beyond disbelief, Maggie is inclined to think that he really might find her again. It's not like she's ever planning on going too far from her daddy's house.

But God only knows when Connor will come back.

She shakes her head, cranking the car and ignoring the searing tightness in her chest. She sits for a few more moments, breathing slowly in and out until she feels strong enough to move on.

_Author's Note: The epilogue is coming soon._


	8. Chapter 8

"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."

Richard Bach

…

"Oh, love is real enough; you will find it someday, but it has one archenemy - and that is life."

Jean Anouilh

…

"How many walkers have you killed?"

"More den I c'n count. Prob'ly somewhere roundabouts yer kill count, Sheriff."

"How many people have you killed?"

"Bout th'same. Some b'fore dis craziness rained down, some after."

"Why'd you kill 'em?"

"Well, Sheriff, dere's folks out in t'world just can't be allowed to keep on wit' deir evil ways. Seems t'me it's worth takin' on a little extra guilt an' weight on m'conscience if it means a few more of t'people I care about get t'stay safe fer a while longer."

…

Everyone is gone.

The people of Alexandria finally wake to the dangers in the world around them, and it's already too damn late.

And it's the people Maggie love who pay the price for it.

She is almost glad that Beth and her father were gone before they came to this place. A safe haven, Aaron had told them. A home, a community.

All gone.

Too many Alexandrians killed by the herd to count. Not that they can tell who's dead and who's just missing. Only the faces of those they find after, the ones still recognizable after the walkers were done gorging, are the ones they could truly count as dead.

Maggie spends the following days in a panicked, frantic search that is interrupted only by the painful jarring that comes with the recognition of familiar faces among the shambling corpses.

Aaron and Eric.

Tara.

Glenn.

Oh, God, Glenn. She can still see him, every time she closes her goddamn eyes she can still see him running toward her, through the sea of walkers, turning back because of that girl, what was her name...Enid. Enid falling, Glenn reaching for her, then…

That's when the fog comes; a blinding, debilitating, agonizing fog that chokes off Maggie's breathing and crowds everything else out.

…

"Why're ya willin' t'help us out? What's in it fer y'all?"

"Well, Mr. Dixon, ye seem t'be fair capable of handlin' yerself, an' we c'n always use more of yer type around. Sheriff over dere seems like he might be practiced in keepin' folks safe, an' I'll never turn away someone like him. And then there's...eh. Ferget it. First two t'ings are reason enough."

"What were you gonna say?"

"Don't take dis t'wrong way, but ye r'mind me awful strong of somebody I lost a ways back. Me brudder. Know it's a stupid reason, but I miss him even after all dis time, an' it ain't gotten any easier t'deal wit'."

"...Ain't stupid t'miss someone like that. No law sayin' ya gotta get over shit like that."

"Amen, brudder."

…

Rosita dies saving Eugene, but he somehow manages to slip through again.

Rick pulls through, like Rick always does, though Carl will never be the same again. He wakes up after a day or two, but he isn't the almost-grown boy Maggie has come to know. Silent, his mind wandering worse than Maggie's does now, Carl face a long, painful road to recovery.

Michonne, by Rick's side the whole time, makes it through the night with more blood on her sword but nothing physically wrong with her.

Carol survives the herd but won't talk to anyone about what happened to Morgan.

As for Jessie and her kids, Maggie never does quite manage to pay attention long enough to hear what happened. She is understandably distracted; she loses the baby later that week.

She knows she's forgotten other people in the weeks since. There were so many more people in Alexandria, people she was going to work to keep safe and make a life with. But not now.

Daryl, Sasha, and Abraham come back later. She's still not really sure when. Someone might have said a couple of days, but she can't remember. She remembers other people panicking (though she doesn't understand what's left to panic about), people telling her she has to hurry, they have to leave, other people are coming.

Maggie remembers shrugging. Other people are always coming.

So they run. That should seem strange, they don't run anymore, but with so much destroyed by the herd, they just don't have the firepower or manpower they used to, and apparently whoever is coming is worse than the walkers, so…

They run.

…

"Is it much ferder t'yer camp, Sheriff? Don't wanna rush, but I'd like t'get ye all inside some walls b'fore nightfall, even if it's just th'empty gas station a couple of miles back. Call me whatcha like, I'm not much fer bein' out at night dese days."

"Just over the next ridge. We've got a patrol, we might run into 'em in the next little while. Carol or someone."

"Right smart of yer people t'keep a patrol goin'. Heard tales about some nasty folks some ways north of here. Dat's why we keep so far down here and way back up in th'woods. Not many folks encounter us, so not many folks spread t'spread th'news we're here. Less people know, fewer folks we got tryin' t'break ours doors down."

"Sounds pretty smart of your people."

"We try."

"And just so ya know, they ain't tales. They're the real deal. Some bad shit goin' on up north. S'what we ran from."

"Just as well we ain't plannin' on migratin' any time soon then, eh, Sheriff?"

…

As the weeks pass, Maggie begins remembers how to breathe again. Sometimes it's only for a few minutes, sometimes she can make it coherently through most of a day. Slowly but surely Maggie claws her way back out of her mind and into the hell that is the real world.

There are days when she misses the fog.

People don't know what to say to Maggie. To be fair, there's not a huge amount of talking amongst the group. They survive, they're together, but this last blow was...heavy. They walk, they scavenge, they forage, they find shelter, they post a guard, and the rest of them sleep. That seems to be the maximum people can handle these days.

Maggie doesn't sleep, though. Not much, anyway. When everyone around her is finally still, finally silent, all the distractions of the real world melt away, and she can finally just sit still and breathe.

That's when she listens for everyone she's lost.

Beth sings her name sometimes; Glenn calls it so softly that Maggie can hear his smile. Daddy says it sternly sometimes, on days when she lets the fog reach in too far, but other times his voice is sad and wistful, like how he used to sound when he talked about her mother. Other voices, voices she hasn't thought about or heard in years, float through her mind, little eddies in the fog.

Pastor Bill calling her out for inattention during Sunday school class.

Maggie.

A farm hand calling her over to check on a newborn calf.

Maggie…

Annette, pleased and surprised to see her home on an unexpected weekend off from school.

Maggie…

And then, that one voice, the one that always said her name the way it was meant to be said, the perfect, lilting, roughened voice that right now, for the first time in so long, she wants to hear above all others.

Maggie…

…

"So ya've met Carol an' Michonne. Abraham an' Sasha are on patrol. My boy is sleepin' off one of his headaches, but you'll meet him when we get everyone t'gether. He...got hurt real bad a few weeks back, but he's makin' it. Better than he was doin' fer a while, we're all shocked at how good he's recoverin'. Few folks packin' stuff up, you can talk to 'em if ya like. An' Maggie's around here somewhere."

"Maggie, eh? Knew a Maggie a ways back when I spent some time in Georgia. Funny how names ye know pop up sometimes, aye?"

"Well, Maggie is from Georgia, now that ya mention it. A lot of us are. Maggie? Where ya hangin' out?"

…

Someone nudges her shoulder, one of the Alexandrians whose name continually escapes Maggie, no matter how many times she's told. Probably something she should be ashamed about, but she'll most likely forget it again, so there's no real point in feeling guilty.

She glances up from the knife she's sharpening, shaking off the fog of her thoughts. She could almost hear the voices calling her name again, that's not good. She knows better than to let the fog take hold in the daytime like this. She's almost shaken it entirely, but she isn't quite willing to let go of everyone she's lost yet.

So the voices stay, and Maggie sometimes enjoys their company.

…

"T'ousands of Maggie's in Georgia, can't be t'same one."

"Either way, I'd like ya to meet 'er, and then we can get everyone together and head out once the patrol gets back in. I know she's around...there she is. Maggie, got someone I want ya to meet."

"Is...Maggie?"

...

She finally turns towards the sound of her name, wondering why in the world that voice is coming from outside her head.

"Maggie!"

Blue eyes, calmer than she's ever seen them. Disbelief and barely contained joy warring with a suspicious glint that most survivors carry in their eyes these days.

Maggie shakes her head, looking away. It's got to be in her head. Something just finally snapped; that's all. She'll be okay, but if she's going to have hallucinations this powerful, she probably needs to tell someone to take her gun. What if she sees someone she'd shoot on sight, like the Governor or-

"Maggie!" Warm, calloused, achingly familiar hands cradle her face firmly, turning her eyes until they meet his.

"I'm really here," Connor murmurs, his eyes searching hers as they slowly focus on him. "Are ye still dere girl?"

"You're...real?" Maggie asks. The crowd around them is silent, some staring openly while others try to look anywhere but the two of them. "Everybody else can see ya, too?"

"Yeah, he's there. Walked with 'im from his town a few miles back. They're gonna help us get back on our feet," Rick says, watching Connor as he checks Maggie over.

"Then...yeah, I guess I am here," Maggie says slowly. Her eyes lock on Connor's; she can focus suddenly, so much more than she's been able to the last few weeks, and reality rushes in with sharp, painful clarity.

"Dat's a good t'ing, 'cause I seem t'remember there's a few choice words I've been savin' fer t'next time I saw ye."

No.

No, he can't…

Panic sets in. Everyone she loves dies, and he can't...they can't...she can't handle that.

"I'm not the person ya made that promise to, Connor," Maggie manages, her chest constricting with the certainty of losing him again. "I've...everyone is gone. Ya can't say those things...everyone is...I lost...I'm not her, Connor."

"'M sorry, girl. Yer whole family?"

No words left, she nods, selfishly reveling in the marvel of his skin resting on hers.

"Ye've got yer group, though. They're here wit' ye, an' I know it's wort' about t'same as t'last time I saw ye, but ye've got me. If ye want me, I ain't goin' nowhere dis time. World's tried t'kill me too many times already, and dat was b'fore everyt'in' went t'hell. Ain't gonna get th'better of me now I've found ye again."

"I…"

"Just tell me, Maggie. Ye know I'm here, ye know I'm real, aye?"

She nods.

"Den let t'rest work itself out. An' when yer ready, a day from now, a month, a year, I'll say it den. Ye still trust me?"

Rick coughs, shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable with the word "trust", but Maggie ignores him, ignores the rest of the world that snuck back in when she wasn't paying attention.

"I do trust you, Connor, I just...everyone who loved me…"

"Are waitin' wit' Murphy, an' we'll have one hell of a family reunion someday. Fer now, though, while we're still here, will ye settle fer jus' me?"

Those blue eyes, clear now with only the vaguest hint of a storm. Calm now, collected and sane and…something. So different from Glenn's brown ones, always sparkling with some sort of goofy idea when she first met him, so grave and loving those last few weeks every time he put his hand on her stomach and smiled at her.

She can't help but think of that look Glenn would give her, like her father when he came home after a long, hard day at work, and Annette came up to give him a kiss. The way Sasha looked at Bob as he was dying. The way Rick would look at Carl when the boy wasn't paying attention. That look that said they were exactly where they were supposed to be because they were together.

The way Connor is looking at her even now, even after all the time and distance and horror that separated them.

"Ain't settlin' Connor. Gimme some time, but I want ye t'say it when I can hear it. I...need...just promise me this is real? Promise I'm really here with you?"

His sudden grin comes with a movement of clouds overhead that spreads some rare autumn sun through the clearing, warming Maggie's back as Connor straightens and holds his hand out to her.

"I'm here, an' I've got somewhere I'd like to show ye around."

She gazes up at him for a long moment, allowing herself the pure joy of just taking in his presence. Then she takes a deep breath that comes unimpeded for the first time in weeks, reaches for his hand, and pulls herself up.

"Alright, Prison Man. Take me home."

**Author's Note:**

> If you’ve made it this far, please take a moment to leave a few words in the review box on your way out. Thank you for reading.


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